Iowa Spring
The open book of the land
waits for the plow, the misty lines
of green that will come, pulling
themselves toward the sky, swinging
on the ropes of the equinox, finding
a foothold. Today,
robins buck
the cold breezes over last year’s furrows,
ricocheting off the clouds that graze
in the clean blue sky. The walnut tree’s
fingertips are fat with buds, waiting
for the first peal of thunder to burst,
green fists uncurling, palms to the sun,
finally, finally allowed to stretch.
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