Summer moseyed in this morning under an egg yolk sun,
her warm, moist breath filling the valleys, rising like steam.
You could tell as the day went on that this was no preview;
she’s here to stay. Still, her arrival seemed sudden.
You had to orient yourself a bit when you stepped outside
and took your first lungful of her hot, wet air.
Overhead, whipped cream clouds towered like mountains
in the hazy blue, and little beads of sweat formed
on your forehead, and your mouth spread in a smile.
Even the lake was warm, sweltering in her light, the lily pads
basking in it, the trees on the shore fanning themselves.
This is the real thing all right, you say to yourself. Summer.
Well, bring it on, baby. Bring it on.
Suppose that all these flowers come from birdsong.
Imagine that each little chirp, every trill, each cascading
note that falls to ground transforms into petal, into leaf,
into stem. Entertain the notion that these wild ones
are translations of the music of the birds into colors,
that their flight, their darting, their soaring, crystallizes
into fragrance and form, all in order that we,
passing by, may be lifted, and for a moment, set free.
A pond reflecting sky,
a waterlily bud, rising,
reflecting, and the pads,
just so, amidst a sprinkle
of glittery weed tops
draw themselves into
the frame of my lens.
And I capture them,
this instant of time,
this fragment of space,
arranged like some surreal
painting, frozen now, and
shared with you.
You’re a star, you know.
That’s what you’re made of,
the dust of a long-ago star
that traveled through eons
of time, past glowing nebulae,
past galaxies, all the way here,
just so, on this wondrous day,
you could shine in the garden
of the Yes.
As if you haven’t already exceeded
my highest wishes and expectations—
what with the fragrance of lilacs
and the birthing robins and painted lady
butterflies, with your great washing
of the world in shimmering greens,
with the crocuses and tulips, violets, dandelions,
phlox, and the blossoms of apple trees
and cherry, not to mention the dogwood
and bugleweed and the flowers of the grass
and the countless other blossoms whose
names I are too many to say, oh, and let me not
forget the scarlet tanager and hummingbirds,
and the swallows and all the birds who sing,
and the evening songs of the peepers, and
the rainbow that arched across the hills
after that last rain, and all of this given
in a single month’s time—now you lead me
to a field filled with buttercups,
and I am brimming with so much joy
that I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry.
For the past eleven days,
since I first spotted the nest
and found the turquoise eggs,
I’ve tiptoed out my door,
quietly crooning, Good Morning,
Mother Robin, even though
I could barely see her, so well
was she hidden. She sat
there every day, though the rain,
through the unexpected frost.
Good Morning, Mother Robin.
Good job! I would say.
Yesterday she was gone.
Gently, I pushed aside
the hedge’s thick branches.
No eggs! I stepped closer,
pulled aside a few more,
then gasped at the sight:
Three pink babies, featherless,
all beaks and eyes, looked
to see if I was the bringer of food.
I let go of the branches
and slowly stepped away.
The father robin’s song rang
through the rain-sparkled day.
It’s a boy! It’s girl! It’s boy!
Later, peering through the
thicket of branches, I saw
the steadfast mother sitting
on her nest, plumped out,
warming her tiny nestlings.
Good Day, Mother Robin.
That’s quite a miracle you have
there. Good work, sweetheart.
I say. Beautiful job.
Suddenly, you’re everywhere,
your haloed sun-faces beaming.
Oh, it’s just a common weed,
the jaded ones say, if they notice
you at all, dismissing you
from mind and walking by,
deaf to your cheery song,
as if they had all the happiness
they could possibly bear.
But children, who are as wise
as you by nature, laugh with you
in delight and gather you by handfuls
to take home to sweet mothers
who will smile and place you,
in their prettiest vases,
on their windowsills and tables.
And there you may sing of spring
and of love to your heart’s content
and be heard.
Of course the panoply of greens
is the first thing to strike you.
Every species of tree wears
its own unique shade. The reeds,
the merry tangle of weeds
along the bank all display
their own interpretation of the hue:
green. But step into it, into this
cloud-strewn scene, with its play
of light and breeze, and suddenly
the sight of it seems but a stage
for the all-enveloping chorus
dancing on the air, sung by a choir
of countless birds, descending
from the trees, rising from the reeds
and weeds and water, wrapping
around you, enveloping you
in its exuberant, affirmative joy,
convincing you, that no matter what,
life will go on, and on, and on.
Eighteen Painted Lady butterflies,
hatched and nurtured in the den
of a tender and caring woman
inside fine, mesh cages, flew free
today. Some burst into the sky
as soon as the door was open.
Some hung back, needing a gentle
push, a bit of coaxing. But all
of them, once free, lifted
on joyful wings into the infinite
world, finding grass, finding flowers,
feeling the warmth of the sun,
discovering their strength
and drinking freedom
as if it were the ultimate gift,
second only to life itself.
Spring sang the world awake
with pastel bouquets. Now
she sweeps across the land
with bolder hues, her lilting
come-on giving way to deeper
songs. Hers is the season of love
after all, the irresistible call
of life to life, turbulent
and wondrous in its passion.
Rise to it. Drink its heady wine
until you are filled with it
and flowing with the only
answer possible–the endless,
unfathomable, glorious Yes.