The Face of Things

The creek retreats from flood rage
to its summer voice, trees
shake out leaves, turn the page
from dark and cold to seize
on green directions, how
blackbirds float from bough to bough.

Sap’s rise wakes an old tune.
Almost persuaded now I hear
rustle, whisper, sigh and soon
flowers burst from bud, queer
to return again to this new start
where violence detonates and bursts the heart.

Yet for the moment I stand caught
in the web spread by morning’s sun
where time hangs beckoning, I ought
dig deep, plant seed and feel begun
faith in my roots, that my sweat brings
truth again to the face of things.