Category: Spring 2023

I knew you would be here. The peonies have opened.
I’ve noticed that you always come at the same time.
Secretly, I think of you as their guardians somehow.
It has something to do with your alertness and the way
you keep watch over them. When I was a child,
the mothers told us that you were called sewing needles
because you would sew up the lips of too-noisy children.
It didn’t work. You only gave us another excuse to squeal our delight
when you and your friends darted by, your iridescent bodies shining.
We shrieked for our gladness for every living thing that flew or floated
or crawled or grew, glad for sunshine and cool water, glad
for our very selves, bobbing on big black inner tubes
on the green sparkling waves of the Saginaw Bay,
damsel flies nearby, poking through the air like needles.

I know that June is at the door
and that you must be leaving,
And I suppose it isn’t fair of me
to ask, considering the countless
marvels that your minutes here
revealed, considering the beauty
you bestowed upon my world.
But the time has passed so quickly,
and each hour was so sweet,
that ask I must. My love for you
demands it. Oh, May, May, May!
Couldn’t you stay? Couldn’t you stay?

May’s parade of flowers held me captive
all month long with its radiant colors,
with its scents perfuming the breeze.
They filled my winter-famished soul
and quenched my thirsting spirit.
Meanwhile, in the woods, May bathed
the earth in emeralds. The trees stand
knee-deep now in an ocean of leafy green.
All that was dead and drab is gone,
the woods transformed into a palace
for birds and bugs and critters galore,
every inch of it alive and singing in joy.

When the hot winds blow, child,
when winter’s ice returns,
when the world feels barren and bleak,
when, in the midst of the darkest nights,
fear or pain weigh on your heart,
recall these petals, so soft and sweet,
and remember how tender
love can be.

I was wandering aimlessly through a park
I had not walked for a while, searching,
casually, for an invitation, for the whisper
of a word, of a sound, a quiet wave of color,
a scent on the breeze – a sign saying This Way.
We all, I suspect, look to signals and grace
to point us toward the most propitious paths.
Then, as if in answer, something said,”Look up.”
And so I did, of course, and there above me,
cascading down from the branches of a tree,
were hundreds of white blossoms, hung
like lanterns from a vault of emerald green,
shining their light, shining their gentle light.

Subtly now, spring’s colors deepen.
From her limitless palette, she dips
her brush into crimsons and burgundies,
into scarlets and golds. Her creations
grow more elaborate and complex.
Her flowers yield the first small signs
of vegetables and fruits. The air,
perfumed still with lilacs, takes on hints
of roses and cut lawns. Days of rain
give way to long stretches of sunshine.
From the country roads, dust rises
in clouds in the wake of passing cars.
In the tall lush grass of the pastures
goats and calves and colts and lambs
leave their babyhood behind and move
with a new independence as they graze.
But, as if to remind us that she still remains,
her mornings come wrapped in birdsong
and fog, and violets still sparkle in the dew.
This song is spring’s overture for summer.
and the curtain is slowly beginning to rise.

Between the stands of white and purple phlox
that dance along the roadsides, wild carrot blooms,
Queen Anne’s predecessor, lace for Lady May.
It’s the least the earth could do, this touch of grace,
to thank her for all the lovely gifts she tucked
in fields and woods and gardens during her splendid stay.
Such jewels! Such abundant treasure! All to reassure us
that, after the cold bleak winter, life returns,
magnificent, and singing joy.

I washed the breakfast dishes with the scent
of lilacs sending me into a world of dreams
as it wafted through the open windows.
Iridescent bubbles slid down the surface
of my cups and plates, and lacy white curtains
waltzed in the breeze. When the last fork
was clean, I dried my hands and went out
for a tour of my gardens, so lush now.
And then she did it, Merry May, her gift
of the day proving how she got her name.
At the edge of the garden, a motion
caught my eye. A prince in disguise!
I laughed at the surprise. And although
I didn’t kiss him, he let me gently stroke
his pebbly textured back. Spring laughs
in flowers, said a poet once upon a time.
And now comes May, the merry one,
making me laugh with her gift of a toad.

The sprig of young oak leaves startles me,
a shaft of sunlight bathing it in yellow-green,
sharp in its brilliance and in its contrast
to the hunter green needles of the pines,
in whose midst it grows. But the color
isn’t what struck me; it was my realization
that I knew this oak; I encountered it
last fall, glowing russet red. “Why, hello!”
I say to it, right out loud. “Good to see you
looking so fine. Good to see you.”
I have stood in this very spot before,
staring up at this very same tree.
And somehow it feels like meeting
a friend, right here at the edge
of the woods.

For days, I have been watching the lilac’s buds grow plump,
their pale purple trumpets lengthening, the tips of them
swelling until, one here, one there, they burst into white stars
that pour forth a scent brewed, you would swear, by angels.
Today it wafts through my open windows, perfuming the rooms,
and I, enveloped in the fragrance, breathe, and believe
that surely I am tasting the essence of heaven.