On the western windowsill,

my daughter has arranged four

small bottles. “I like the sound

of ‘syrup,’” she says, her voice

a loveliness too. Stoppered

with cork, how easy to catch

life that quickens in a stand

of trees, ‘wakening in the cold

of March to sweeten our tongues

as we struggle to recall

how to speak spring. My eyes hold

my long-limbered girl as she drifts

out the door, but inside,

I wish for the winter’s freeze

to stay that spring of sweetness.