The Meadow After Snow

By noon the snow had loosened its white hand from every stem. Beneath it, the meadow kept the small green grammar of beginning— one blade, then another, lifting its head. Meltwater traveled in silver threads, finding the old paths under the frozen ground. The sparrows came down to drink from them, shaking winter from their patient wings. I stood where the drift had covered my footprints and felt no need to recover them. The earth had made a softer record: not where I had been, but what could rise.