God of the indefinite
walk between February
and March, show me
at least one bloodroot,
lone constellation
of white petals like
a preacher in her pulpit,
green single leaf,

or reveal a first anemone,
purple beside
a dormant poplar tree
whose buds wait
for the similar mercy
of opening to sky.

Mysterious, moving
woodland God,
stand still
long enough for me
to smell copper
galax she loved well,
like all things acid-sweet.

If you will not unveil
her, reveal nodding
trillium, Solomon’s seal,
along this trail
of winter duff,
of still-brown leaves.