The wild raspberry blossoms
are opening now, great vines
of them cascading in long arches
down the hill, secrets hidden
inside, secrets that will turn them
into tart, sweet, juicy red globes.
The birds and I keep eager watch,
singing our chant to bring the magic
on. Oh, bring them, little blossoms.
Bring them. Bring them. Bring them.

This is spring. This is the lush wet green
of her, pouring from every branch, rising
from every inch of soil, gushing
into the fast-flowing waters, licking
every dancing molecule with her song.
This is exuberance set free, leaping
with life, drenching every form
in hues of jade and lime, every leaf,
every blade, the currents of water
and air. All of it Yes, uncontained,
all of it utterly spring.

Trilling one final grace note,
a gift of welcoming for summer,
a gift of appreciation for all
who love her so, spring sings
her farewell, gliding westward
to ride the sun over the horizon.
Behind her, a trail of flowers,
delicate, bold, spicy and sweet,
colors the sky, and we watch
until stars and fireflies rise,
our hearts filled with gratitude
for all sweet spring bestowed.

Sometimes, Daddy, when I walk in the deep woods,
I remember the time you drove Mom and me
up to your hunting cabin, a little wooden shack
you shared with Mike and Okie every winter
when you went to hunt for deer. I was five.
The cabin, you said, was near Rose City, a name
that created wondrous images in my young mind.
It turned out there were no roses there. But
there was a woods that lined the road for miles.
Then we followed two dusty ruts, nearly overgrown,
for miles more. The cabin was one big room
with bunk beds, an ice box, and a big iron stove.
Mom stayed there to clean things up while
you took me on a long walk into the woods,
pointing out the rabbit scat and the poison ivy,
telling me how you would sit in the snow there
for hours watching for a buck to come along.
It was all so green, and the trees were thick
and towered to the sky. We listened to them
whispering to each other, and to the birds
and chattering squirrels. I had no idea
how to get back to the cabin. But I was never
afraid. Because you were there. And you
were strong and brave and a hunter,
and you knew everything. I loved you
then for taking me to this secret, magical place.
I love you now, even though you are gone.
And often, when I walk in the deep woods,
I feel you beside me, and I am never afraid.

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 its creations
with knowledge and love,
and is beneficent in all its ways.

It’s my favorite summer sitting place
with its canopy of spruce boughs
and the endless green. On days
like today, when a breeze whispers
through, all the trees waltz to its song.
In the morning, the air is filled with
bird song. At night, fireflies sparkle,
their lights floating all the way up
to the tops of the trees and beyond
until they look like shooting stars.

Memories float up from the weathered
pine floor, stored over thirty-some years,
a parade of dear ones, conversations,
confessions, laughter, comfortable stretches
of silence, dogs, cats, once, a painted turtle.
Mostly it’s just me, my thoughts adrift
in the spaciousness, the Yes of it,
wrapped in sweet contentment,
drinking its deep joy.

At the edge of the lake
the water iris sings
ringed by reeds from which
her golden sisters grow.
Behind her a deep patch
of  wild forget-me-nots
bob in the afternoon sun,
calling her to our attention,
as if her beauty could be missed,
as if we would not hear her song.

Hot breezes blow, a foretaste
of summer. The heat awakens
the catalpa’s buds, and suddenly
they burst into hundreds of blossoms,
white and ruffled, clustered among
the tree’s large, heart-shaped leaves.
You could imagine they were mounds of snow
or ice cream if you were longing for relief
from the day’s fiery air. The sight
of them is alone enough to cool you.
Such is their grace, offering refreshment,
just when we need it the most,

I leave the novel I’m reading on the porch
where I’ve been enjoying the sun, the wisps
of high cloud, a robin’s song, and go inside
to answer the phone. It’s Bob, a friend
who lives ten miles to the west of me.
Get on your bikini, he says. I’m grabbing
the boat. You got whole barrels
of rain coming your way. No way, I say.
But when I go back out, a wall of clouds
thicker than tar is racing in from the west,
gobbling up the sky as it goes. The birds
are wild with warnings. I grab my book
and things that might fly away—the tablecloth,
the potted plant, the plastic chairs—and run inside,
beating the downpour by seconds.
I put the plant in its accustomed spot and watch
the scene melt through my rain-pelted window.
Who needs a novel when the world itself
offers such tumultuous drama!

No matter what you imagine awaits you
around the next bend, no matter the clues
or reasons or signs, you never know.
The river always has its surprises,
twists and turns being part of its nature.
Consider it part of the adventure.
The best that any of us can do
is savor the calm when it blesses us
keeping our paddles at the ready.
The next set of rapids could lurk
just around the curve. But be assured,
all our best wishes eventually come true,
just rarely in the shapes and or at the times
we, with our limited vision, had dreamed.