Category: Spring Songs

Everything is possible.
The rain-dreams of trees, for example,
can summon rain on a summer day.
The wishes of butterflies can open flowers.
Send a loving thought anywhere; it will find its way.
Dream of peace, and you will feel it unfold,
spacious and free, in your own heart.
Ask anything of the dawn. Then follow
where it leads you, and believe.

June blows 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,
sends a quick, loud thunderstorm
as if in response. Then she smiles,
unfolds her green wings and settles in,
her gossamer gown swirling around her,
hiding gifts in every fold.

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 light of the sun. I cannot help
but say that I have tasted heaven in your hours.
It is no wonder that the sky itself sometimes 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 of joy than sorrow,
because you brought me hope, and life, and love.
Farewell, sweet May, until we meet again. Farewell.

The variegated hosta is in full swirl now,
the sight of it transporting me
back to my early childhood days
when I’d stretch out my arms,
toss back my head and spin until I fell down,
the green of the trees swirling still,
until it all finally came to rest.

For timeless hours, I would lay in the cool grass,
breathing its perfume, watching the leaves
of the cottonwoods, poplars, maples and oaks
sway in the breeze from the bay, while above them
white gulls soared, their calls cascading down
through the canopy of May’s luscious greens.

Now, at my feet, hosta plants unfold fat leaves
beneath the lilac blossoms as damsel flies play.
Everywhere, green abounds in countless forms,
each one a masterpiece and perfectly placed.
Above me noisy crows fly in the deep blue sky.
All of this, so swiftly come, the fulfillment
of a promise. And now, so swiftly passing.

May’s sweet finale begins now with a sweep
of trumpets and bells, its pastel tones rising high
into the perfumed air. Larks come, and robins,
to carry the song to the trees, to the sky.

May herself waltzes the fields, strewn with
her violets and phlox, buttercups and clover.
Rainbows flow from her feet as she goes
and the grasses bow to her song.

Across the forests and meadows her song sings,
over the green rolling valleys and hills.
And it sounds like love and wraps itself softly
over all the wee creatures she brought to the world.

“May you flourish, dear children,” she sings.
“I leave you the gift of my joy. May you thrive,
sweet babies, I love you.” And she whispers
her tender goodbyes.

The afternoon is moist and drenched with the fragrance of lilacs,
and low clouds hang in sky. The world feels dreamlike,
its colors muted, its birdsong subdued. Rainstorms are coming,
but not until nightfall. You can feel their approach in the air.
And something else, too, is approaching, but you can’t say what.
All you can do is stand there, still, waiting, watching.

From the corner of your eye, you catch a movement,
a dark, darting streak and you turn your head to see, there,
on the peony leaves, a damsel fly, the year’s first, its tail
an iridescent turquoise and blue, its sheer wings black
in the day’s low light. It seems a sign somehow,
a signal that magic is afoot. Quick! Make a wish!
Ask to hold onto this moment forever.

In the late afternoon, a storm moved in.
The trees, busy unfolding new leaves,
were unafraid, having seen storms before.
They knew what to do: Stand strong;
bend, unresisting, with the blows.
And when the storm has passed,
honor what has fallen with your reverence
and love, even though you mourn your loss.
Then stand, and let the sun warm you.
Continue unfolding your leaves.

They stand for nothing,
not for a price or a system,
nor for any particular position,
or concept or creed. They obey
only the law of their being:
Flower freely. And so they show
their colors, and feed the ants and bees,
decorate the roadsides, and dance
in the morning breeze, asking nothing,
simply being, and singing their songs.
And when the stars rise and twinkle
above them, their hearts are filled
with pure joy.

It’s a fun job to begin with, designing flowers for Earth.
You get to play with all the colors of the rainbow,
every little shade and tint. And shapes? Anything
you want, from the simplest to the most complex.
Any size. And you get to add fragrances and leaves, to boot.
Like I said, a fun job. So fun, in fact, that every now and then
those Cosmic Artisans get silly, and infuse their little blossoms
with giggles-come-to-life. Just for laughs. Because, oh,
how they love to see us smile!

When the rain clouds parted, a narrow shaft of sunlight
found the corner of the garden where a solitary iris bloomed,
bronze in color, as if it had purposely come to touch
the flower’s heart. And a wind came, riding on the sunlight,
and the petals of the iris opened to its kiss, exposing
the flower’s secret soul. And the sunlight entered in,
and the iris knew that this moment was the whole reason
for its being—this touch, this love, this light.