Vernal Equinox

There is no halfway here,

even though it’s halfway to summer, even

though the sun is halfway along

its path, which is your path too,

the one on the ridge that passes the sheep

chewing with their tear and crunch

the only sound of the noonday,

except for your boots, which grind

along the trail, sometimes rock

swept clean of snow, sometimes

ice, left from the odd melt in December,

the one that pushed cars into ditches,

flipped the school bus

and surprised you—so warm so

soon, so long before the light.