In a field of soon-to-be crops
Fresh growth tickles my skin;
I navigate clouds swimming
Across the sky as they blanket the sun;
The air cools only briefly as a breeze carries
A comforting scent of new life across my face.

At a brook harboring water to its end, I lean
Over an iron barrel that bridges the walkway;
My fingertips dance atop the water, grazing leaves
As they glide through—
Only to muddle at a lone branch suspended between banks.

My hair hangs like the long-stretched branches
Of a weeping willow three thirsting to drink from the water below.
Their tips dampen, shrivel and fall cold upon my neck—
I stand and they nestle against my skin as if for warmth.

I take a path through the woodlot—
With a stick as my guide I comb the understory,
Sifting cool tiny fragments of earth through my fingers,
Investigating veins that surge through a leaf.

I trudge along the path canopied by the ageless trees staring down
Like watchers; I reach the edge, looking back—
Capturing Spring.

Written by Anne Bariola