“subsequent vernal”
The green stayed hidden
while the field around it
burned and seeded.
You labelled it winter,
called it a broken clock.
But look at the cortex now—
fully mapped, solid stone,
suddenly split wide
by ancient lightning
finally, bones for weight.
Now the cold makes sense:
it’s an ignition that knows,
watching a slow, wilding thaw—
not a blinded animal in the dark,
but with eyes wide open to the flame.
.