the little firs
after the sun
then sleet then hail then rain
snow thinks about moving on
leaving this patch of woods
lighting out for downstream parts
deciding, it transforms
grows supple energetic on the move
flows
buffs and magnifies
each once-mediocre rock
into a semi-precious find
that old stiff snow laughs down the mountain
singing a spring song
and at the margin
of each steep white-walled
cliff of reluctance
peeking out at the very edge of the melt
are the little firs
their small lithe bodies
bent but not broken
shrugging off winter’s frozen weight
straining toward summer
ready to make something green
from nearly nothing again
