In Doubt

Perhaps the fields are doubtful too in spring,
the early spring I mean, when the air’s still cold
and only the straw and stalks of last year’s crop
mottle the earth’s wet skin with webs of mold.

Nothing has shown the slightest tinge of green,
the buds look dead, the grass lies thin and brown,
the lack of singing birds almost suggests
a serious question answered with a frown.

There seems to be no movement where the tips
of tulips last year pushed the earth aside
and hoisted up thick stems designed for cups
of color, as if the lips of the season died.

Perhaps this moment’s chill serves to revive
in seeds of men and crops doubts almost lost
as eyes peer out through memory’s windowpane
at sparrows, hungry, distracted by husks of frost.