that no one taught the bee
to thread its humming again
through the door of any hive;
that in some fields, blue
begins to stipple its way
through green. On hillsides,
the yellow of beggarticks,
the open mouths of dogwood.
Don’t doubt the rain, don’t walk
under signposts that point
elsewhere, away from the ordinary.
Should icicles yield their spears
from the eaves as you pass, take it
as a sign that ponds are starting
to brim with gurgle— That shimmer
in the rushes, perhaps your
many acres of sorrow folding.