The succulent, bright green shoots of early spring;
the blackthorn – on distant hedgerows like
sporadic late frost or, close to, pearls
of scattered barley; the tiny goldcrest
with its mighty voice – see see see, see see see:
presage the summer’s rich beneficence.
This is her second spring. She points with wonder
and joy at a sudden breeze that shakes
the cherry tree, disturbs its white petals
against the bluest sky, the brightest sun.
She is walking now – or, rather, teetering
fearlessly through her own universe
of daily marvels: dead leaves, small children.
Adept for quite a time in her own
lingua franca soon she will learn ours,
a mundane, quotidian miracle.