The Last Frost on the Brambles

The morning holds its breath in white, A fragile rim upon the dying weed. Before the sun can strike the shadow down, The cold insists upon a final word.

Beneath the soil, a blind intelligence wakes. Roots turn and listen to the thawing mud, Tracing the slow geometry of spring Through silent veins of buried stone.

We stand above the unremembered dark, Watching the silver vanish from the thorn. The air is sharp, and sudden with the scent Of green things waiting to be born.