Birches know about longing.
From October to May they wait.
Wait.
Wait for winter to relinquish its grip.
Sheathed in their elegant skins,
limbs anticipate the change,
a tap on the shoulder, bright coins
of light pressed into their boughs.
By early May, tree wells open,
sleeves of snow fall slack,
relax into thawing ground.
Sap rises cell by cell until
buds burst and no matter
how long you’ve lived at this
latitude you are astonished by
the arrival of so much green.
Each leaf’s release leaps bright
into branches eight months bare.
Soon every tree rustles with
thrushes, warblers, and kinglets.
The patient months of longing
suddenly shimmer with light
and you hear a familiar story
told new for the first time.