A week passed before I visited the eastern slope
of the southern hill again. The buds of the quince
are giving way to tiny green leaves. The baby ferns
are still asleep beneath the soil. But look!
The daffodils are open! Little patches of them
dance all across the hillside, glistening
with droplets from the morning’s rain. Where,
I suddenly wonder, is that one who came first?
And turning toward the mother spruce, I see her,
ruffled petals spread wide, beaming happiness
for all she’s worth. And what she’s worth,
it’s plain to see, is well beyond any measure.
I kneel and smooth a fingertip across her fragile petals
and we both melt in a connection of sheer joy.