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.

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To hear me read this poem aloud click on the podcast below. Thanks!