When spring rides in, they tell me,
wherever her pony steps, coltsfoot grows.
I believe them. The pony’s step is light.
It flies more than it prances, touching ground
just here and there, when spring pauses
to take in the view or to plant special flowers.
Years ago, I found one of her favored spots
and I return each year seeking evidence
of her visit. This year, I confess, I climbed
with apprehension. Last fall, workers dozed
a path at the very edge of the woods
that circle the reservoir, exactly where
the coltsfoot has always grown. Would spring
still pause here? Could coltsfoot rise
through this packed clay? The leaves
were wet. I had to climb carefully.
Then, half way up the hill, I stopped
to gaze up its slope, and there they were,
patches of them, little sun-coins, beaming
yellow rays right into my heart. Coltsfoot,
I beamed back at them, whispering their name.
She was here! She was here!