Sonnet at the Edge of Spring

The earth is trying something underneath— you feel it in the softness of the ground, a stirring, like a sleeper holding breath before the alarm, before the coming sound. The willow bends but hasn't leafed. The air tastes almost green although the branches wait. A blackbird tests one note against the bare grey sky as if to ask the world: how late? I too have wintered, held my breath through cold and shortened days that tasted like the dark, have watched the calendar like something old and useless—then: one morning. One small lark. And here it comes. The crocus splits the ground. I kneel. I press my ear. I hear the sound.