It’s what we long for, lushness sparking the
dailiness with dollops and spangles of vibrance,
a rustle and sway of green-crowned trees
that will lift our heads and plants that give forth
a carnival of blooms so we lean forward, bend our knees.
The desire is for wintering to be done, the shadows obscuring
city and country to be subdued or made ghostly luminous.
But inside our flesh, we can be anything.
Inside the in-between-ness of now,
there is winter, there is autumn
and summer and spring, the blood and spirit
our testaments to time’s wisdom, hearts thumping
to rhythms this planet and beyond offer up.
Or so it seems as I awaken at dawn and sense
possibilities of celebration– even as prayers slip from
my lips to guide and protect, hold all close to the center,
manifest in everyone’s life the brazen powerhouse of love.
A gauze of light filters across the nesting room,
touches my fingertips, arms, face as it beckons me.
I rise up limb by limb. Beyond my window is brash azure
of March, stark branches potent with buds,
birds rattling the morning with musical events.
I can wait for flowers to strew more joy
but run downstairs to you sipping espresso,
and to my berries, bagel and vanilla chai,
a Friday unlike yesterday, its bouquets of abundance
made of hidden wonders, of laughter like spice.
To hear me read this poem aloud click on the podcast below. Thanks!
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