Get up from your bed of powdered ice
You produce of the island, stretched lean and pruned in Pensacola,
Pressed down, shaken, and released in Pennsylvania.
Get up from your dreams of carrying your Mother
Who first began to carry you in Texas
And listen to your sister whisper “church yourself” in sleep.
Shake off your sore, your lame, your heavy lashes longing for the sea.
Feel the sunrise in your tired bones,
Refuse the flutter, but feel the sap of spring.