Your eye moving
left to right across
the plowed lines

looking to touch down

on the first

shoots coming up

like a frieze

from the dark where

pale roots

and wood-lice gorge

on mold.

Red haze atop

the far trees.

A two dot, then

a ten dot

ladybug. Within

the wind, a per-

pendicular breeze.

Hold a mirror,

horizontal,

to the rain. Now

the blurred repetition

of ruled lines, the faint

green, quickening,

the doubled tears.

Wake up.

The wind is not for seeing,

neither is the first

song, soon half-

way gone,

and the figures,

the figures are not waiting.

To see what is

in motion you must move.


About this poem
"This poem is from a series of studies of the same field in sequential seasons. Is there anyone in the Northern Hemisphere who isn't trying, in these days, to read the signs of spring?"
- Susan Stewart

About Susan Stewart
Susan Stewart is the author of numerous books of poems, including "Red Rover" (University of Chicago Press, 2008). She is a professor of English at Princeton University.

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The Academy of American Poets is a nonprofit, mission-driven organization, whose aim is to make poetry available to a wider audience. Email The Academy at poem-a-day[at]poets.org.


(c) 2015 Susan Stewart. Originally published by the Academy of American Poets, www.poets.org. Distributed by King Features Syndicate