we must trust in the knowing of daffodils
and in the songs of returning birds perched
in trees along the wharf, singing regardless
of the grumblings of tired old men, regardless
of urban noise and the rumbling interstate traffic

we must trust in the slightest hint of non-arctic air
underneath the chill, the half-scent of spring in the rain
the need to remind ourselves
the sump pit needs draining and the dogs
tracking in mud from the back fence

where they go to bark at the neighbor’s adult son
hiding and playing with axes, imagining
that the end of the world
will be his time to shine like an equinox sun.