It is that kind of blue-sky day
when the salamander’s tail
starts to dry ten steps from the mud,
the brown-winged butterfly
sails over a crust of snowbank
through the spring peepers’ love-drunk calls,
and the forest starts to push up green
through last year’s brown.
I pick up the salamander, feel
dew-drop-cool feet wander
over my palm, shift my hands
for his gentle descent to new
wet grass at the shady edge
of the swollen marsh.
Katrina Serwe