Not plausible, perhaps, but last night the current bushes still appeared as a handful of sticks. Early this morning, the world still damp with dew and rain, green leaves have emerged from those brown sticks, their tender folds already beginning to open.
No other words for this: spring in all her viridescent beauty.
She is working now, in a room
not unlike this one,
the one where I write, or you read…
Let her have time, and silence,
enough paper to make mistakes and go on.
— from Jane Hirshfield’s ‘The Poet’