Late Winter

written from a word list prompt at The Sunday Whirl

the cold blue blood of the sky
rises over bare fields, edged with ice
rises over us, teeth clenched against
one more day of winter. Birds try again
to shatter February with beaks,
with songs that crescendo over mornings
of every thing rattling in the wind.
Only the bare trees sense it—
their long deep bodies remember
the electric green jolt of spring.
Still invisible to humans, trees know the secret
slow as honey, what rises through their roots