Category: Spring 2024

Frost warnings went out last night.
Again, tonight, it’s a possibility.
As I walked across the lawn, I thought
it felt more like March than April.
Wait. What was that? A black netting
hanging from the jonquil. I walked
to the front of the garden, then stopped,
unbelieving. A swallowtail! So soon!
And in this cold! Oh, Springtime,
every single one of your gifts
comes as such a delightful surprise.

Because they could taste spring’s mild air even
when the world was frozen, their sap rose.

Because they spent the long winter dreaming
that robins built nests in their limbs, dreaming
that the world was green and that sunlight
danced warm and golden all around them,
buds formed at the tips of their branches.

Because their dreams were so vivid
that they heard the songs of summer winds
even as the snow piled around them,
their roots grew deeper, their trunks added rings.

Because they believed in springtime,
their leaves sprang forth.

Everything has its own dance,
sings its own song. Listen
with your body, with your heart.
Feel the way things touch you
with the rhythm of their being.
Pay attention to the way
that they resonate inside you.
Ask yourself about the taste,
about the quality of sound
a thing creates. Take the flower
of the quince, for example.
Notice how its gentle sweetness
moves in a poignant waltz.
Close your eyes and feel its song
moving you, almost to tears.

Just days ago, the peonies poked through
the soil, their straight red shoots growing so fast
you could almost stand there and watch them
add inches. Then their leaves opened,
eager and bold, and they, too, could hardly
wait to add length and width to their size.
Yesterday rain came, and they drank as if
they were sailors and how they reeled
right there in the yard, whooping it up
with such boisterous joy that they almost
scared the blackbirds.

Under the overcast sky hauling in
its rain from the west, the colors
were subtle, as if this stretch of wetlands
was a pastel dream into which, by magic,
I had suddenly arrived. Riding
on the warm, moist air that brushed my face
was the sound of a distant train playing
bass to a chorus of hundreds of frogs.
Then raindrops woke me and I ran
for shelter through waves of grass
and dandelions, frog song in my wake
all the way home.

They were still asleep when I found them,
and although I was giddy with relief
that they were here, I quietly knelt
beside them and gazed at them.
What amazing dreams they must have
as their protective leaves open,
exposing them, for the very first time,
to light! Let them dream. Tomorrow
we will have more rain. Feel the moisture,
the dance of the air. Wonder about it.
Soon you will feel the light of morning’s
sun, and when you open and look around
the world will be beyond anything
you dreamed. And you, sweet ones,
will hold its beauty in the pastel cup
of your being. Meanwhile, sleep.
Sleep through the coming rain.

This is what got me through the winter,
the hope of one more spring, exactly
like this one, with its boisterous green
and ten thousand spring beauties
climbing the hill, afternoon sunshine
brushing them with its light.
And here it is. And here am I,
my hungry eyes drinking it in,
my face grinning, my heart
thumping out a mantra of thanks.

A whim took me off my usual route today,
just a light little tickle of a thought:
What’s up that hill?
The road leading up was potholed
and uninviting, lined with time-worn
houses in cramped, unkempt yards.
But still, I was drawn. And when I reached
the road’s end, I discovered what had called me–
a garden of phlox in full bloom nestled among rocks
beneath a blossom-filled tree.
It’s wise, I’ve learned, to follow the promptings
that playfully tease you to consider a change
of course. They often will lead you to wonders
that you otherwise wouldn’t have known.

The first of the ferns were born today
surrounded by sweet spring beauties
who sang their arrival to the world
and bowed like attentive angels
keeping watch as the babies unfurled.

Until I heard your trilling notes
floating through my kitchen windows
(which are opened
for the first time this year,
and oh, how sweet the breeze!)
and followed the sound to you,
so glad in the budding branches,
I had no idea that a tiny sparrow’s heart
could hold such joy.