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.

If you’re walking in the woods, spring barely whispers.
But down toward the creek her signs are everywhere.
In the damp places, skunk cabbage unfurls its green robes
and spring beauties smile up from fresh grass and
the wee grass flowers, too. Along the creek’s edge, coltsfoot,
and then in the clearing, a whole carpet of new green,
green leaves, and blades, and buds, and flowers.
And hear how the creek sings out spring’s name!
Hear how that joyful creek sings!

It comes at you like some dark, giant bird,
stirring the clouds across the breadth
of the horizon, its power pushing ahead
of it, cold and smelling metallic.

It changes everything, leaves you
when it passes, in an altered world
drenched with choices bathed in new light.
Size them up. Pick one, laughing. Carry on.