Burdens

You know how the wet snow piles,
on stalks of old field grass? The impossible
weight pushing their brown heads down?
The same snow will melt away, letting
them straighten, to wait for a long
symphony of whispered sounds and
the next slowly gathering burden.

Yes, I see the beauty in white waves, swirling
to a shiny rest in iced support of bent stalks.
I see how some bend, releasing a white
burden to stretch toward straight and some
bend down wearily, touching the earth.

I can view the changed earth; the tracks of mice,
tails swirling lines, red fox following in
a faint pawed, circuit and best,
the punched arches of a deer braiding
a path for others.

I know, finally, the dark brown ground will
go white gray and the water, slowly
coming back from still, will creep
between lumps of earth. The mud and seeds
will begin to travel again, on those
restless, bony bodies. I wish it wasn't only
then, I could see the whole; this clean,
greening earth is shot through with the
beaten strength of the old.