Vine in Early Spring

The ivy traced upon the wall

Is the color of smoke,

The color of the tree-shell

When the foliage and fruit are gone.

Under the cross-marching lines is the vine awake?

Here is the map of the year before us,

The great, dim rivers flowing ...

The highways where the leaves will pass.

The Western states are here,

Torn with the first ploughing.

And to the South the vast ocean

Into which the rivers empty,

Pours with a ripple of green over the brown,

To warn travelers of strange currents,

To show where distant islands lie.

The map hung here upon the wall,

Even as we watch, defines new land.

The thin boundaries move and swell,

And the bud claims a far outpost

Open to exploration by wind and sun.