Late snow dusts a black branch
its sap-life stream
sucks in the last winter wet
to push down deep
to the redbud’s belly
its curled inner fire, cooled
from long months to a faint flow, but
the pulse quickens
when a cerulean warbler
perches to call—
Come! Come! Come!  
A fresh forest tablecloth
was spread overnight
a banquet promised soon
to all who wait.