In the Late Season

At the soft place in the snowbank

Warmed to dripping by the sun

There is the smell of water.

On the western wind the hint of glacier.

A cottonwood tree warmed by the same sun

On the same day,

My back against its rough bark,

Same west wind mild in my face.

A piece of spring

Pierced me with love for this empty place

Where a prairie creek runs

Under its cover of clear ice

And the sound it makes,

Mysterious as a heartbeat,

New as a lamb.