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First Word of Spring
by Loius McKee

She tells me the ice
is finally melting;
I can only assume
she means the crust
along the weedy creek
banks, the crisp ply
that makes grass talk
underfoot, the glaze
and glint high in crags
of the sad stone face
over the riversedge.
When hearts thaw,
we don't need to be
told. The melt is
tremendous; rivers
flood, and miles away,
even as far as I am,
there are fast runnels
washing with all
the gold sun they can
past my door.

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