The truest measure of spring is not the chorus of green peepers
calling beyond the fold of the river, nor geese lamenting northward,
nor the sound of their wings: these are memories only.

But last night, after a rain, I stood on the step and listened
to earthworms drawing leaves into the soil beneath the lawn.
This sound is the slow repair of the season, the truest measure of spring.

[Migrating geese image by charlietyack and used under the aegis of a Creative Commons license.]