Category: Spring 2023

Opening from nowhere,
from the long, gray cold,
from spring’s relentless burgeoning forth.
the magnolia floats
beneath an April blue sky,
as if it were nothing,

as if its pastel pinks, its smooth flesh, its graceful rise
came as easily as breathing, as effortlessly as morning breeze,
as if its sheer, magnificent being were no miracle at all.

The hillside is a riotous mess now.
Everywhere, green sprouts rise
despite the winter’s debris, winning
the contest between the green and brown.
Several days ago, over a week now,
I got a notion to spot a baby fern
on its first day and to watch it unfold
into full fernhood. I have searched daily
and searched diligently, carefully eying
the ten thousand details lest I miss it,
the first one’s birth. Until today,
I had to say, “Not yet.” But today,
on a cold and misty April morning,
just as a robin sang from the woods –
the first I had heard this year – I spotted it,
already tall and rising from its curled sleep.
And now I get to watch it grow.

I hesitate before I step outside.
Part of me is shivering with anticipation.
Another part is wondering how I will stand,
peering into the face of yet another proof
of spring’s grand yes to joy. A bird’s song
pulls me out, and I walk across the slope
as if I am approaching the gates of heaven,
the morning’s grass dewy beneath my feet
and glistening in the sun. The air is warm.
A hundred birds sing from the woods.
Then there I am, peering down at a choir
of narcissus that looks like a troupe of angels.
And their silent song floats its gladness
into my heart, and I sing along. Yes. Yes.

After five straight days of sunshine, suddenly
a bank of rolling clouds swept in, born on a wind
that set the trees swaying with joy for the drama
of it all. At my feet, the lush shoots just now rising
quiver as if they sense some wonder in the air.
Their first rain! And, oh my, how they glistened
in the afternoon sun after the rain had passed!

One of the things I love most about spring’s flowers
(along with their tenderness, and how heedless they are
of anyone’s opinion) is the way they paint their absolute joy.
You, for instance, with your simple white petals, shooting
seeds on red stalks from your rosy red heart.
How can I look at you and not feel delight?

A single pink hyacinth opened today in my garden,
luring me with its irresistible perfume to come close,
closer. Lose yourself in her the air said. I could do
nothing else. And I cannot describe the pure cool joy of her.
It simply transcends words. But imagine a scent so heavenly
that you want to breathe it in forever.

Late in the afternoon, actually just before evening,
as the sun sinks behind the western hill, the treetops
on the east end of the southern slopes, their buds swollen
with life, glow in the golden light, their crowns looking
like pastel clouds afloat in the springtime sky,

Sometimes when I stop to look
the thought comes to me that we,
you and I, may be among the last
ever to see living nature in its context
through purely human eyes.
Really, that’s why I stop, why I trade
moments of my life for the sight
of these blossoms. We could be,
you know, among the very last ones.

Spring beauties cover the hillside now,
emerging from the layers of last year’s leaves
to dance beneath the sun. In the right light,
you might think for a moment that it had snowed.
But no; it is only these tiny, bright flowers.
Only this message of undeniable joy.
Only life appearing. Regardless of the odds.

Before you returned, the waters were frozen,
the ground deep with snow. No songbirds
fluttered through the stiff, cold branches
of the trees. Everything slept in darkness.

Oh, the world still held its beauty
in a stark and subdued way. But nothing
foretold an awakening; nothing hinted
at renewal. Hope was a forgotten word.

Then, in you came, with your warmth
and your gold,your earth-shaking thunder
and life-giving rain, coaxing everything
to awake, pushing it to rise, luring it
into the light, inviting it to open,
giving it reason to sing, to shiver
with joy, to remember that
love never dies.