Line Between Seasons

The rollicking whinny of the wind
tunnels the arches of the trees,
itinerant snowdrifts hug the ground
and find diminished comfort there.

Buds are bundled tight as bulbs
as out of its pattern the grass unfolds
and deep roots pump through veins the sap
to carry the news of a maple’s virtue.

My neighbor, I know, has seen the signs
but he, by god, serves the commonplace,
go draw the line yourself, he says,
he keeps his pace but will not hurry.

Not being a willow, he only sees
(and knows what he sees, or thinks he does)
enough to follow his own concern
he won’t change more than the change around him.

He studies the wintry clouds and waits
firmly convinced the sun’s in season,
knee-deep in the mud with a hold on March
he notes that a heifer has taken the bull.