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.
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.