Time to Act

At last the revelation, a brisk wind peels
back the snow, unwraps the cold
from maple buds,
sweeps through the yard and piles the winter trash
against the gate.
The dog stretches and yawns, eyes the cat,
howls as the windmill turns to the south
with a rusty scream.
The henhouse awakes, the auxiliary cackles
confusion and strife without exacting duty,
till the practical housewife, shaking her rugs,
is seized with excitement and walks in the yard.
A bushel of sparrows erupts from the lilacs
scattering gossip in spite of the whip
of rhetorical flourish cracked from the elm
by a redbird. The farmer shells out of his coat
like a seed from the husk,
and marvels and feels
through his spread-fingered hands
the pulse of the sun.