What Sort of Eye

Your small, silken ears savor spring’s strong song

Unfurled on the mast of a barked synapse

Of miniature ships in a still throng

Your petals are sails after winter’s lapse

Life stirs and throbs and stretches its fresh limbs

You gave sleep its soporific season

Empty and cold, the eternal cup brims

Once again with wine, which enchants reason

Study an almond for a spring hour

Ask: what sort of eye weeps a wooden tear?

Frost can bite branch and root, but strange power

Waits in them both, to exhale wild new air

A blossom is a word a tree’s tongue speaks

Joining spring’s new poem is what it seeks