Half-Numb from Winter, on a Morning Almost Warm

Go for wisdom to the iris, beard
Like a Chinese sage
In a flutter of philosophy.
Let the tall tongue of the iris
Tell you what spring is—
Root of the rainbow; waterfall pouring itself
Into itself; cloud-rot before
The cautery of sun
Burning the season clean again.

How would the trees know, small leaves
In a spray of green wind?
Or the grass gone wild with rain? You can't hear
What the fat bees hum, too low for words.
And whatever the weeds say,
Don't listen.

Go ask the iris what spring means,
Thrusting up from its dirty heart.

Copyright © 2005 Elton Glaser All rights reserved
from Here and Hereafter
University of Arkansas Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission