A Fencerow in Early March

The last snowdrifts
have drawn themselves up
out of the light
clinging to winter.
Beyond them,
a muddy stubble field
has sponged up
all the darkness--
the February nights,
the iron stoves,
the ink of every letter
written in longing.
And the fencerow
goes on, up and over
the next low rise
and the next, casting
a cold, white shadow,
each gate still closed
to spring.

Ted Kooser, Poet Laureate of the United States