Category: Spring 2023

The variegated hosta is in full swirl now,
the sight of it transporting me
back to my early childhood days
when I’d stretch out my arms,
toss back my head, and spin until I fell down,
the green of the trees spinning still,
until the scene finally came to rest.
And I would lay there in the fragrant, cool grass
watching the leaves of the cottonwoods
and poplars blow in the breeze from the bay,
and above them, white gulls soaring, their calls
cascading down through the luscious canopy
of May’s lacy unfolding green.

I climbed the southwestern slope this morning.
It’s slow going, strewn with hidden rocks
and roots and vines. Mostly I’m looking
for the next place to put my foot, not only
for my sake, but because the wild violets
and baby ferns are everywhere. I pause
with every step, marveling at the shapes
and shades of green rising from the earth,
at miniscule flowers, and tall ones dancing
on slim stems, and the tiny buds and
newborn leaves on the branches of vines
and trees. I am so immersed in it
that I forget I am there, that such a thing
as me exists at all.

Later in the day I found myself looking
at the slope from its base, at the fresh green
of it and at the way the afternoon light
dappled the hill. I saw the reality
of the trees and recalled how I could feel
their aliveness on my climb the way
you feel your cat curled on his chair
across the room even when you are
giving him no attention at all.
I got to see this, I said to myself.
I got to be here.

Well, hello, Mr. Bumblebee. I know you.
We met here at the pulmonaria
just yesterday. I wondered if you
were the very one I ferried from my kitchen
in a jar a couple days before. Remember?
Let’s believe, just for fun, it was you.
I would have returned here, too.
That’s the color of my favorite flavor.
But come back later for the purple ones.
I’ll watch for you. Come back. Feast well.
I’m so very happy to see you.

Dusk was beginning to move in
when I saw them bound across the road
and up the hill. Only their motion
let me know they were there, so well
did their colors blend with the trees
and the leaves not yet covered with green.
I had seen them last Monday, climbing
the same path up to old roadway that runs
east to west across the face of the hill.
They stopped to graze for a while.
Do deer, I wondered, eat violets?
One by one, they slowly passed,
alert and watching, ready to disappear
in seconds. And then they were gone.

Bells the color of sky rise from earth’s fresh green.
waltzing in the wind, happiness wafting from their petals.
On this most magnificent day, may there be gladness.
May there be joy. May all hearts be filled
with sky-wide Yes and singing.

Over the decades of birthdays past
life has grown complex. When you are young,
you think that you will reach the place
where dreams come true and live,
content and at ease, to the end from there.
Then reality happens, challenging all
you had supposed, its seasons carrying you
to places far beyond your dreams, testing
your courage, and endurance, and faith.
Life, you find, is fierce. Its lessons come
at great cost. But oh, the quiet places,
the treasures you gather along the way—
the rays of truth and wisdom, the touch
of human hands, the songs of the teachers
who sing in nature’s voice, the smiles
of children and strangers, the company
of family and friends, and always,
the infinite Yes of sky, reminding you,
despite any evidence to the contrary,
that you never truly left home
and are always wrapped in loved.
And so, arriving at this birthday present,
I celebrate sunlight spilling through lacy trees
onto fresh grass and wild violets
and give thanks for another day of waking
in this most amazing world.

For days, it’s been raining and the hillside’s a mess.
But I went out anyway, every day, watching for the ferns.
Then, finally, today, they were everywhere, as if
some bell had rung at midnight, telling them to rise.
I confess, it took me a little while to spot them,
given the soggy tangle of decaying leaves
and the upsurge of blades and curls of new green.
But here they were, newly born, their stems
wound ‘round in protection of their baby fronds.
I counted fifteen in this one family, the bold ones tall,
and some just breaking through the soil. In summer
they will cover the hillside like waves on the sea,
billowing in the breeze. And I will watch the show
and tell them I remember the day that they were born.

On this first day of May, a gentle rain fell
and the lilies-of-the-valley rang their white bells
to join in the rain’s gentle song. Beneath
the lilies’ jade leaves, spring fairies danced
in a cloud of the flowers’ perfume,
the signature scent of the May Queen,
angel of mid-spring blossoms and of all
the newly born. And the day was filled
with their welcome and with the joy
of their delicate song.

One thing about April, she lived up to her legend.
She brought in the rains for the flowers of May,
and scattered bouquets of her own, rainbows
of blossoms and myriads of leaves that painted
lacy patterns against her cloud-swept skies.
She teased us with warm breezes and swept
away the last vestiges of winter’s snow.
She whispered life into the earth’s frozen veins
and sang sweet songs of waking to us all.
And now, beneath soft clouds of pearl,
she slips away, carrying with her our thanks,
our heartfelt joys, our dewy-eyed farewells.