Clap your hands, o peoples,
o you bony, branching trees,
o happy resurrected stumps,
o stiff green shoots, o hearts.
The sun has heard the crying of your silence,
the loud absence of wind's whispers in your leaves.
He asked the clouds to cover you in shadow
and called the rain to wet your blistered toes,
and lo, behold, in storm your newness started
as if by accident, as sudden as surprise.