My eyes find the tree’s upper limbs,
a symphony of sorts, played against
the dappled March sky as the morning’s
rains float off to the west. For a while
I cannot move or think. I can only stare
and breathe the cold, moist air.
When I return to myself, my mind
is reeling as it surveys all it must
have taken for this tree to be dancing
exactly here, exactly now, and for me
to have traveled my own long road
making all the unlikely choices
that led me to this gift,
exactly here, exactly now, and how
it was exactly what I needed.

Sometimes I’m sure I see them dancing.
Not just their branches, the whole tree.
They do that, you know, when they think
you’re not looking. Usually at night,
or deep in the forest where humans
seldom go. But here we are, in the midst
of March, the mistress of moods,
and she’s scattering snowflakes
in shining bright sun, and how,
imagine, if you were at tree, could you
keep yourself from dancing?

Deep in the center of us, something knows.
No matter how uncertain the path, how many
the unexpected obstacles or how formidable,
something leaves clues, whispers from beyond
the bend, drops a sign, shines a light. The key
is to remember that it’s there and worthy
of our trust. Watch. Listen. Go with ease.
Keep on.

On your way out the door, smile.
Let your grin linger on the threshold
for a while and roll across the floor
just to let them know, as you leave,
how good it was to be there, to give
them a picture of you to hold
when they think of you
in your absence, when they think
of your coming for another stay.

Overnight, the maple’s red buds burst,
freeing their tiny leaves to reach for the sky,
etching a scarlet lace against the deep blue
where days ago, there were but bare twigs.

And from one of the high branches, a call
sounded forth, clear and high, a single note
followed by a pause and then repeated.
From across the way, an answer came,
filling the pauses, and waiting for a reply.

Back and forth the two birds called
to one another, as if their sole mission
was to mark the opening of the buds.
And their song went on and on.

Yesterday I photographed her when she came for breakfast,
her plumage fluffed up against the day’s sharp cold,
and thought how a certain tenderness rose inside me
at the sight of her subtle colors. She, whose mate
is so flamboyantly red, is the modest one of the pair.
Today, a sudden wind hurled her against my window pane
and she fell, dead, beneath it. In the blowing snow
I gathered her soft body and found a protected place
for her beneath the ancient spruce I call The Guardian.
What a terrible emptiness it leaves inside us
when a dear one goes.

A two-lane highway cuts across this slope,
a truck route, lightly traveled. On its far side
the slope continues, even more steeply,
to the flat, wooded valley and broad field
down below. I was watching the snow fall
when a movement caught my eye. A buck,
tall and regal, was bounding down the hill.
Just then, a car sped up the road, doing maybe
fifty miles an hour. In less than a second,
their paths would intersect. I held my breath
to brace myself against the imminent collision.
And then, as if it were born to do so,
without as much as a heartbeat’s hesitation,
the deer leaped into the air in a high, perfect arc
above the speeding car, and bounded down
into the field, disappearing in the woods there.
And the snow continued to fall on the hill
as if nothing had happened at all.

It was an odd winter, with hardly any snow
and none that stuck around over a day.
I count that as a blessing, considering
the other challenges the season held.
The relative mildness was a comfort
and a gift. But still, when snow fell
for a couple hours this morning,
the child in me was glad, and we climbed,
she and I, up the hill atop crystalline flakes,
listening to the silence, feeling the dance
of the soft light that caressed the bark
of the trees. Often, I’ve found, what is
surpasses all you could have imagined
or hoped for. Haven’t you noticed?

I see you, brave little leaves,
poking up from last year’s survivors
into the mild March air even though
the nights still promise more frost.
I understand; I came early, too.
You can only wait so long before
you just have to make the leap.
Comfort is fine, as far as it goes,
but oh, the irresistible lure
of new adventures!

In the corner of the garden, heliobores wear
crystal droplets fallen from a colorless sky
in ribbons of frozen rain and snow. March,
who transports us from winter into spring,
performs her mission adeptly, with subtlety
and grace. We shiver in the cold, tempted
to scowl. But there, in the corner of the garden,
bold blossoms open, singing songs of resilience,
painting our minds with sweet hope.