Turning

It is not the way the robin with its bright yellow breast

Perches on my mailbox

Like an honored guest

It is not the way the worm with a luxurious stretch

Crawls out from a tuft

Of resurrected grass

It is not the beginnings of tulips

Or the softening of the ground

Or the greening of the path to the river

It is not the way the buds on the trees tease me

With their promise

Of the soon-ness of newness

Rather it is the wind

That blows between the gaps

Of the almost blooming branches

And asks if I will remember

The structure of emptiness,

The shelter of barrenness,

Once spring’s fecundity

Overtakes my senses