Out morning winter walking in the urban
backwoods, I see what I should not:
green buds breaking from the sleepy bark.
Not just the eager whitethorn but blackthorn, too,
and haw and wild rose and ash and more. All are
stirring now, too soon, wakened by the early warmth
of the world. They are not rested. They will bud and
leaf and flower and die before they should, out of
the time with the rhythm of the seasons. Bluebells, too,
are showing through, too soon, too soon.
This world is warming, these signs a warning
to us all.