River of the Trunk

Under the gray crust of snow,
frozen in the chaff of fallen years,
wet leaf-meal clotting into soil,
the O-horizon's deep black sky
spangled with frozen stars,
something moves at last.
And a maple key,
dreaming where it lit
on two stiff wings,
veined like the wings
of a dragonfly,
two hundred nights ago
stirs in its sleep,
opening at the touch of water,
giving everything
for one pale root
to slide into the loosening world,
for a tender stem and two round leaves.

When the planetary speck 
                    comes near the sun, 
a human watcher sees 
                    a bridge of fire 
flare out and that 
                    grand circle rup-
ture like the maple 
                    trees winged disk 
in spring.

And when that small 
                    black wanderer 
enters the hot
                     interior, the 
smooth circumference
                     flexes in, 
giving way again.

Standing in the dark 
                    mountains and 
peering through a 
                    thick smoked pane, 
an observer sees 
                    celestial calm 
return as
                    Venus glides for 
minutes past 
                    that broad face.

And when the 
                    other edge 
is reached, the 
                    sun is suddenly 
whipsawed again, 
                    discomposed by 
consternation 
                    or delight.

March again.
The near ridge blocks the sun by three.
Cold cruises up the valley like a mile of ice.
High maple twigs, patina of the graying sky, 
budded and slender, furred with frost, 
suck in the sap, their only chance to make it through this night.
They hold their breath, engorged.
Morning sun will shine forever before the twigs can give it up.
Released at last, sap trickles down a thousand springs into the river of the trunk.
Still half-filled with ice, lidded buckets tick on every tree.