The rain falls softly on the forests bare bones
and on the remnants of last seasons snow,
now reduced to melting piles,
where winters mighty drifts once stood.
The mist mutes my footfalls
but I amble on, deeper into the wood,
under this dripping, tangled mass of branching timber,
that in a months time will erupt into a splendid canopy.
And this Vermont springtime woodland,
this temple to natures potentiality of action,
poised, but not yet quite released,
provokes the soul to abstract reflection.