Category: Spring 2024

“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.

The seasons beat the calendar to the bat.
Have you noticed? Their temperatures,
their smells, a few characteristic signs
suddenly pop on the scene, singing
“It’s summer!” or “It’s fall!”

Take the daisies, for instance.
Two weeks ago, not one was in sight.
But let June stick her toe in the door
and the next thing you know
their sunny little faces are grinning
through the grasses everywhere.

So now, whether it’s official or not,
something inside you knows that
summer has indisputably arrived,
and you, like the daisies, are
alive, and glad, and free.

There’s no plush carpet here,
no beige walls or polished surfaces.
No sir. What you have before you
is a virtual riot of gladness,
an unrestrained jubilee,
sprung to life all of its own accord.
Kinda wild you say? Exactly.
No committees, no policies,
no locks, or clocks or alarms,
no written plan, no codes,
no outlined parking spaces.
It’s nothing but rampant joy
set loose and bursting
with freedom. Sorta makes you
want to let out a holler,
kick up your heels, doesn’t it?

Stick your neck out.
Even if you think that
what you have to show
ain’t pretty, climb out
of the dark of the swamp.
Bask in the warmth,
in the light, in the sun.
Breathe the fresh air
through your nose.
Let it dance through
your toes. It’s sun time,
fellah. Let it all hang out.

In the middle of February
when winter has long since erased
all but the faintest memory of green
from your mind, it’s hard to imagine
that a day like this could have ever
been real, or could ever come again,
At best, it seems a faded dream,
a dim hope, this roadside, knee deep
in wildflowers and grasses, the delicate
and multilayered scents drifting
on warm air that’s filled with the
songs of tree-hidden birds,
and the trees themselves,
rich with their greens, their leaves
dancing in the fragrant breeze.

A day like this, which makes all the rest
of them worth enduring, is a treasure,
a wish granted. It calls for the opening
of our hearts and our senses,
for the breathing of it into our souls.
May we spread our arms to welcome it,
to gather the sunshine it pours down
our faces and bare arms, to drink in
its infinite, flowing aliveness,
our spirits floating in its endless Yes.

The trail that leads to the meadow
is as familiar as a lover’s face,
changing with the day’s hours,
with the seasons, and always
holding some surprise,
a new wrinkle, you might say,
and yet fundamentally the same.
Today it is lush with summer
and taking its leisure in the warmth.
The heady rush of springtime is over.
Alongside the trail, summer’s work
takes on an easier pace. It knows
what the earth wants to grow where.
It knows that it knows how to grow it.
It’s done this before. So the earth
relaxes into the season’s warmth
and lets the light and shadows play
as it steadily grows its luxuriant green,
its luxuriant, healing green.

Here, in the world where time flows,
not everything happens at once.
The symphony has its movements,
its measures. It has its rhythms
and moods. Each thing unfolds
according to its nature. Coming
when it is meant to come; leaving
when it is meant to go. Trust that.
It may not always seem so, given
the limitations of our view. But
after sufficient seasons have passed,
your heart begins to know that
time has a way of doing things
in exactly the right order.

Windlessly, clouds creep in from the west,
their weight easily borne by the thick, dense air.
In the garden, parched plants ache for rain.
The trees’ spring-fresh leaves droop
in the heavy stillness, praying.
Finally, off in the distance, thunder rolls
and all the green things hold their breath
in hope and anticipation. (Please! Please!)
It takes the rain a full hour to begin.
But then it falls in fat, cool drops that plunk
like the strings of a bass on the hosta leaves
outside my open kitchen window.
The fragrance of wet soil wafts through the screen
and everything rises and breathes its joy.

What if you were to breathe this serenity
into your heart? What if, before you spoke,
before you formed a judgment or opinion,
its green calm flooded your mind? What if
its harmony revealed the way to peace?
What if you spent this day enveloped
in its sacred song, letting go, letting go?

The blackberry vines are in blossom now,
their arched, thorny branches clumped
in the fields and tumbling down the hill.
You can see the baby berries forming
in their centers, summer treats for the birds,
a worthy trade for their songs. And look,
little beetles are fattening themselves
on the leaves beneath the blossoms.
The Yes feeds the leaf-eaters, too.
It denies nothing that contributes
to life’s thriving. Why, the whole planet
was built on its song—beetles, birds,
baby berries and all.