until I am made thin,
a dry leaf
caught on a long, silk thread,
spinning round and round in the wind.
The lissome wait for their time.
The lithe wait for
The son marks each slow breath
High in the Tennessee mountains,
the first rain of March
begins to fall.
It passes down into the roots of the laurel.
It wakes the trillium and the Mayapple.
It swells, shaking the river stones,
until they shiver in joy
rolling in a current of living water.