Category: Spring 2024

June floats in, all vivid and warm,
and flying the colors of summer.
In her sky, hawks soar in great circles
beneath huge whipped cream clouds.
Iridescent damsel flies and butterflies
flit through the irises and peonies.
Leaves dance. The grass sings.
Everything’s in motion. Children bare
their feet and run across the lawns,
whooping the sounds of freedom.
June laughs at the boisterous welcome,
unfolds her green wings and settles in,
her gossamer gown swirling around her,
hiding gifts in its folds for all.

C’mon, June! Bring on your romance,
bring on your moon. Haul in those long
summer days. Settle us into the green
of things, into the barefoot warmth.
Give us the whir of hummingbird wings,
the flutter of leaves in an evening breeze,
the crack of a bat hitting a ball, clear nights
and starry skies. Bring on your leisure,
bring on your ease. Stretch us out
in your mellow. C’mon June. Bring it!

No matter how I dream of you when the nights are long
and the air is devoid of song and frozen, you never fail
to exceed my expectations. You come with your flowers
and perfumed breath, with the songs of a thousand birds
in tow. And the earth wakes and births miracles. And hope
sings again in the morning skies, and love falls in raindrops
and dances in the sun all around us. And I cannot help
but think that I have tasted heaven in your hours.
It is no wonder that the sky itself weeps at your going,
no wonder that fresh flowers open to offer you their thanks.
My own heart flowers with gratitude, too; my own eyes
weep at your passing. But my tears are more in joy than sorrow,
because you brought me hope, and life, and love.
Farewell, sweet May. Until we meet again. Farewell.

Someday, eons from now, when you are sitting
around a bonfire with fellows who rose from worlds afar,
and they say to you, “Earth? What was that like?”
may you tell them what the woods were like in spring,
how, in the blink of an eye, plants the color of emeralds
sprung from frozen soil in a thousand shapes and sizes
at the feet of ancient trees. May you tell them
of the flowers that wore all the colors of the sky,
from its palest dawn to its most splendid sunset,
and how bees collected their pollen to make honey
and how butterflies floated among them in air
sweet with soft perfumes and birdsong.
Tell them how these things kept you true,
how they made you believe in Goodness
and in the Great Yes that gave rise to their being,
and how their songs still live in your heart to this day.

The Asian Irises blossomed a week ago,
just in time for my mother’s birthday.
I remember thinking she would have loved
their colors as much as I do. Each day,
when I walk down to the bottom of the hill
to fetch my mail, I stop to gaze at them.
Yesterday, I was stunned to see nothing
where they stood only the day before.
Vanished. Every. Single. One. Not a petal
remained, even on the ground. Yet,
not a stem or leaf was broken or cut.
The blooms were simply lifted upward
and carried away. I have no explanation.
But wherever they went, a piece of my heart
went with them.

Find a refuge, a place of serenity
where you can sit and breathe
when life presses hard against you.
Build one in your mind if need be,
a quiet place, not too warm or cold,
with a gentle breeze that carries
sweet fragrances and birdsong.
Then retreat there and absorb its peace
and spaciousness until everything else
melts away and you find yourself
one with the sheer wonder of being,
here, in the Mystery’s very heart.

Did you ever notice how you knew,
before your choice registered in your mind,
which option you’d choose? It’s not so much
a matter of analysis, unless perhaps to ask
what seems to align more with your purpose.
It’s more a matter of checking in to see
what you have already concluded.
You can tell because it puts the suspense
of it to rest. It sets you in motion, confident
and eager, open to discover whatever lies ahead,
just beyond what you can see. Something
inside knows. And look where it’s led you!

When the hot winds blow, child,
when the ice returns,
when the world feels barren and bleak,
in the midst of the darkest nights
when fear or pain engulfs you,
recall these petals, so soft and sweet,
and remember how tender
Love is.

The flowers that have been dearly loved
from generation to generation across
continents and cultures have returned.
Today, one such treasured blossom
opened from its full round bud
into a petticoat of ruffles in shades
of palest pink and spilled a fragrance
reminiscent of lilacs and roses combined,
heady and wonderful. And we recalled
the gardens of our mothers and grandmothers
and thanked our lucky stars.

The pastel sky sings the evening dreams
that rise from the sleeping trees and fields.
Soon I, too, will let go of the day and fall asleep
with flowers waltzing through my head,
wave after wave of them, oceans of gold
and green and blue washing up against
stands of water iris, lapping the roots
of the holly and the fern as wild white roses
tumble softly down on their vines.
And I will hear a lullaby of tiny bells chiming,
“Remember. Remember.”
And I will sleep well, smiling.