Beneath All This
Somewhere, beneath all this,
there is quiet change.
There is small vernal pulse,
the order of things being arranged.
Already cyclamen have come to,
soft blue and purple fragility,
light as their primrose neighbours.
The magnolia labours silently,
its buds yet hiding spring revelation.
We, too, unfurl into fresh activity,
following the lead, the instinct
to emerge from winter isolation,
our faces turning toward still watery sun,
sensing, beneath all this, it has begun.