The wind is hymning the trees, spring gods
sleek in scallop, ovoid leaves. Be,
beloved — may I call you that, unborn
as you are? Unfurl yourself into today, slide across
its noon, legs and arms a churning X. Bless
the arch of green, the buttress of blue.
Above, a thousand gods’ silver smiles rustle;
below, the tender rasp of bark and root
cradles you in its sturdy conscience. Enter
the season here, at its sweet, split center.
Ease yourself into the port of breath,
as the wind hymns the trees.