The Man Who Is Ready

I’m on the brink of daffodils.
The backyard snow is full of urine
blooms, the mud underneath is ready
to be itself. It won’t be long
before the planet tilts and the birds
roll north like marbles, the sap
crawls out of the bedrock. The meadow's
sublimation makes me feel
like a piece of sky — ready to plummet,
ready to rain. Up on the mountain
the snowcap wishes toward water —
a wildness that doesn't lose pace,
no matter the stones crowding its path,
no matter the roots of everything. Down here
I'm waiting for the ants to arrive
with their shifting script, their message
from below. I'm ready for this page,
this square of softening dirt,
for this garden of almost daffodils
to bang all my air to bells.