That Same Old Tease

You are troubled—watching them toil:
roots tilling old roots long turned to soil.
Translators’ fingers, blind but feeling—
their leaves unfurl and thrusting stems entwine.
“How?” you ask, with knees unkneeling,
as sign dissolves, rises, hangs, into sign.
Need you trust spring? Need you trust the season?
Branches, between years, branch alike without reason.