Category: Spring 2024

 I thank you for waking the earth again,
for gifting it with flowers and robins and fawns,
with ferns and the tender baby leaves of trees,
with lambs and baby goats and donkeys.
And all of it well-established now and ready
to unfold and grow. Thank you for melting away
winter’s frozen world, for replacing the cold
with balmy bare-armed days, and soft air
filled with birdsong. Thank you for rain,
and puddles, and rushing streams.
Thank you for thunderstorms and great winds,
and for your torrid foretastes of summer.
You did it all! And now you leave me
with this parting gift, this pure and tender flower.
I will remember you always, dear Springtime.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Farewell.

The Joe Pye weeds are tall now,
rising almost over the top of my head.
In their centers, at last, I can see their buds,
still swaddled in leaves. I can almost feel
the energy feeding them, their whiskery petals
pushing toward the light, eager to unfold.
“Great job!” I tell them. “Keep going!”
I imagine the dusky pink of their blossoms,
buzzing with visiting bees who drink their fill.
“Keep going!” I say again. “You’re going to be
so beautiful and so loved!”

The world is an ocean of green now,
lush and full, emerging in a hundred
shapes and shades everywhere
my eyes can see. I breathe its perfume.
I drink in the rain-washed air that tastes
of summer, here on this hot, moist day.

The rains coaxed open the astilbe.
Its foamy lace dances in sprays
white as snow atop the waves of green.
My eyes scoop it up and crinkle
in a smile at its delicate light.
And the heat of the day disappears.

Even as it took its leave, the storm showed its power.
For the last two days, rain has fallen in heavy sheets
on the parched fields, the sky flashing with lightning
and roaring with thunder so loud that it set dogs
and their masters alike cowering in apprehension.

It was noon of the second day before I saw
the first patch of blue sky. Driving past the fields,
revived now and green, I stared in silence at the sky
as the tail of the storm sailed overhead
like some majestic ancient navy, armed for war
and dwarfing the vista that, just days before,
had seemed to stretch on forever.

The old covered bridges are rare now, but loved
and cared for with a nostalgia-laced reverence.
When you walk through one, you can almost hear
the sound of horse hooves and wagon wheels
echoing up from the worn wooden floor. You imagine
the horses, the travelers, leaning into a moment of relief
from the sun’s glare, from the rain, from the sleet and snow.
Even the horse feels it. The windows are cut high to shield
the rushing river from the horse’s view. Only his ears and nose
tell him what lies beneath the solid planks beneath his hooves.
He is unafraid. He never loses his rhythm.
You know this just by walking through the bridge.
It holds its memories well and whispers them unceasingly
to lucky passersby, and to the river.

The wild grass conforms to no law
except the law of the dance.
It surrenders authority to nothing
but joy, to the Great Yes of being,
and to that it bows, knowing
that it governs the cycles
with knowledge and love,
and is beneficent in all its ways.

Not often, although it’s a wonder,
but sometimes, I let the daily news
upset me. How could it not?
All this vitriol and division,
all this manipulated rage.
Today was one of those days.
I went outside to clear my mind.

The air was as thick and heavy
as my mood. But then a flicker
caught my eye and I turned
to see a damsel fly lighting
on a hosta leaf. It swept me,
as damsel flies always do,
back to my childhood.
And suddenly I remembered
the scent of Aunt Maybelle’s
petunias on mornings like these,
when the world was still new
and beautiful. I thanked
the little messenger. Funny
how you can be rescued
from your gloom by a bug.

Later, the day turned dark,
and I started to slide again
into my weariness with the world.
But then I remembered seeing
the season’s first fireflies last night,
brilliant and flickering like Christmas
lights through the dark boughs
of the spruce. And I remembered
the peace within me.

A friend asked me what I’d been doing
lately. I told him I was reveling in the green.
“Oh!” he exclaimed. “Thank you for mentioning
that! I hadn’t been paying attention.”
I was as surprised by his reply as he had been
by mine. After all those colorless winter weeks
with their bare trees and barren ground,
how was it possible for anyone not to notice
the green? Not to walk, enveloped in it,
with a mouth dropped open in awe? Not
to want to do somersaults across it
out of sheer joy? Wake up! Wake up!
There’s a world out there bursting
with jewels, exploding with life,
dancing to the song of the Yes
with every molecule of its being.
Look! It’s right there. Just for you.

“Sweets for the sweet,” the little flower announced as she opened her feathery petals. “Come have a treat! The nectar’s on me.”

“Oh boy,” chirped the small green bug, “Breakfast!” And he gently settled himself right smack dab into the little flower’s center and wrapped his tiny bug mouth around a purple spike.

“Mmmmm,” he hummed. “Purple! My favorite flavor.”

Of course he loved red and orange and yellow, too. But to get a sip of purple at the very start of the day was a sign of great good fortune.

When he had enjoyed his fill, he thanked the little flower and went on with his day. “I wish everybody could start their days with purple!” he said.

And you know what? So do I!

“Enough of this pastel innocence,” says Spring.
“Summer’s coming; it’s time for spicing things up.”
So she brings in some boldness, a hint of heat,
a whisper of passion. That’s what summer is for.
For living large, letting your dreams explode
in full color. It’s for letting life find its fullness,
for feeling the surge of ripening.
It’s on the horizon with its banner flying,
Give it all you’ve got. Gear up. Get ready to play.