Have you walked the upper pasture in the wind,
And counted the nodding clover there,
Each head, a handful of seeds sipping light?
I remember wading through spring snow to cast
Little dark flecks, laughing
As we plunged through the deeper drifts.
How absurd, planting flowers in grayness and cold.
But that is how I trust all things, Love—
Purple and green and sugary scents burst
From the darkest and plainest of nudges,
And the ridiculously joyful act
Of simply beginning.