Remind yourself

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.

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