A branch that broke with the weight of the winter snow

went on with April, blooming anyway,

its death not having reached its hasty bud.

How simple- not to stop or think or know;

to answer a single impluse with a drive

that assumes the sap as a habit in the blood;

to carry on with business of the day

and eat the light and call itself alive.

 

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I found this poet and this poem in a book I got out from our local library. "The Swallow Anthology of New American Poets." Edited by  David Yezzi.