Category: Spring Songs

Despite the month’s cold and rain, the daffodils have opened.
They stand atop the hill along the roadside, greeting passersby.
To me, they look like angels, their white wings spread wide,
their bright trumpets sending songs of unbridled cheer.
“We’re alive! We’re alive! And you’re alive, too!
The sun is shining; the sky is blue. The happy birds sing
from high in the tree. It’s spring, dear ones. Be glad with me.”

Looking from my morning window,
I thought at first that it had snowed.
It’s recently been that cold.
Then all at once I realized that countless
spring beauties had opened overnight.
It’s been ten days since the first ones appeared,
a sparse handful sprinkled here and there.
Now there were thousands, come, no doubt,
to celebrate. Today is Earth Day after all.
Each one’s no bigger than a dime, you know.
But they fill your heart with tender joy,
no matter how mad the rest of the world.

Now and then, when you especially need them,
love gifts you with reminders of life’s tender Yes.
Take, for instance, my discovery today—a long one,
filled with necessary tasks after a night of slight sleep.
Just as the sun was about to set, an impulse sent me
outside to drink in the evening’s light and spring air,
and then whispered to me, “Look in the hedges.”

And there it was, a robin’s nest, magnificently crafted,
cradling four perfect eggs, blue as turquoise.
Imagine the instinctual skill required to find and carry
precisely right pieces of straw, making trip after trip,
and winding them round and round to form a perfect nest,
and then to transport bits of mud to build a protective bowl
strong enough to weather the winds and keep your babies
safe and warm as you flew in bits of food, trip after trip,
until the wee ones were big and brave enough to fly.

At the sight of it, all my complaints gave way to wonder
and to a wish that I, too, might perform my necessary tasks
with the grace and skill of a little mother robin.

The Yes, whose merest spark of thought
creates worlds within spinning worlds,
whose living laughter flows endlessly
between and around and within them,
whose joy knows no bounds,
whose forces flow in our blood,
whose light sings in our souls—
that Yes—plays here, right in the midst of
this moment in Spring, and its star children
dance to the song.

Sometimes it all seems to be a beautiful painting, magically come alive.

From a frozen earth where mere days ago
only decaying leaves fluttered in the wind,
the golden daffodil rises in bold celebration,
nature’s proof of life’s eternal return.
the promise fulfilled, the Great Yes
unfolding in glory, asking of us only this:
Believe.

From the edge of the pine woods wild forsythia beams,
its yellow so bright you can almost hear it sing. I smile
as the glad of it burrows into my mind, fetching up
the memory of a warm spring day when we rode down
country roads just for the joy of it, and you said how
you loved those bright yellow flowers that peppered
the roadside and yards. They’re forsythia, I told you,
and you laughed at the name, repeating it over and over.
I can still see your face, so carefree, as you sang it,
“Forsythia! Forsythia!” whenever one came into view.
And I send you my love, and imagine you’re beside me
as I walk, my heart full of gold, beneath the pines.

Every now and then, in the name of sanity,
I go for a drive, turn down unfamiliar roads
letting intuition guide me: Turn here!
The other day, to my complete astonishment,
I discovered a lake I had never seen before,
not five miles from my home where I’ve lived
for over thirty years for heaven’s sake.
I think I need to get out a little more.

Today the sheep were outside the barn,
scraggly and in need of sheering.
Inside my car, I cheered. Always
I look for them, their appearance
a sure sign of Spring. But the pasture
was empty the last few times I passed.
Maybe it was the endless cold and rain.
Maybe the old man had sold them, given up.
That time, I suppose, will come. But not today.
Today the sheep are outside the barn,
gazing on spring’s green hill.

If I could choose just one thing to take
with me to whatever world lies beyond,
say, as a memento or souvenir
of my visit to this place called Earth—
just one thing to represent it all,
to hold the essence of all my days—
would be impossible were the choice
left to logic. But give my heart reign
and it will go at once to a blue-sky day
in early spring when white blossoms
and robin’s song float on soft, warm air.