Except that the Yes is the source of joy,
Spring needn’t have come with such beauty.
A limited pallet might have served as well,
a handful of standardized designs.
We could have as easily performed
our daily tasks without being caught
in Spring’s web of wonder, without
being stopped in our tracks to gaze
and smile at wee pink flowers
whose centers burst with polka dot stars.
But the Yes, which is made of love,
cannot help but leave its beauty
everywhere, just in case your heart
might need to hear its endless song.
“Let’s go for a ride,” my friend said.
“There’s something I want to show you.”
She hadn’t been well. I asked if she was sure,
and she insisted, smiling. So off we went,
down the winding country roads, saying
to each other, “Oh! Look!” as blossoming
cherry and magnolia trees came into view.
We drove for several miles, marveling
at calves and colts and lambs, at lawns
bright with tulips and forsythia.
“It’s right around the next bend,” she said,
nearly bursting with anticipation, then, “Look!”
Look indeed! It was as if the sun itself
had shattered into hundreds of pieces and fallen
onto the hillside, cascading to the road below.
Wild daffodils danced with irrepressible joy,
despite the cold, despite the milky sky.
We parked and stared for a while in silence.
“Aren’t they wonderful?” my friend finally said,
the flowers’ healing washing new color
into her face. “Beautiful,” I agreed.
“It’s one of those sights you remember all your life.”
In the late afternoon, a storm blew in.
The trees, busy unfolding their leaves,
had seen storms before. They knew
what to do: Stand strong, bend with
the blows as far as you’re able.
And when it’s over, honor what
has fallen with your reverence
and thanks, letting it go.
Then, stand tall, dance in the wind,
and continue unfolding new leaves.
No promises are attached.
The ticket doesn’t come with guarantees.
All it does is let you in the door, advising
you in fine print to leave your fear behind.
Anything can happen; it’s not a ride
for the timid. And it’s wholly up to you
to choose whether to chance the risk.
You’ve heard a thousand stories.
It’s a test of everything you’ve learned.
But if you go, one day you could find yourself
dancing, tall and strong, amidst green grasses
beneath a warm sun, your body glad
and beautiful, and the heart of you
trumpeting delight at the sheer wonder
and magnificence of being. Take the leap.
What fastidious detail, each of these spring flowers.
How can there not be a Who behind their being?
And such beauty. And eyes to behold it, and hearts
to understand. All this, every bit exquisite, each detail,
from this one tender tiny grape hyacinth out beyond
the farthest star. And to think that all of it
is but one flash-like fleck eternally riding
the radiating waves amidst a brilliance of flashes,
world upon world up world. Why, you can’t
even see its beginning or its end! So I ask,
How can there not be a Who,
when all this wonder dances, in joy and awe,
through every molecule of being and through
all the spaces beyond and between and within?
After the night’s rain, I woke to find
Spring Beauties cascading down the hill,
their bright little faces no bigger than a dime,
so precious, so tender, so sweet,
and beaming immeasurable joy.
Always they come as a sudden surprise,
as if scattered overnight by fairies.
Welcome, little love-gifts.
You touch my heart with your smiles.
The Yes, whose merest spark of thought
creates whole worlds within worlds,
whose living laughter flows endlessly
between and around and within them,
whose joy knows no bounds,
whose forces flow in our blood,
whose light sings in our souls—
that Yes—plays here, right in the midst of
this moment in Spring, and its star children
dance to the song.
Opening from nowhere, from spring’s relentless burgeoning
forth from the long, gray, lifeless cold, the magnolia floats
against the clear, blue sky, as if it were nothing,
as if its pastel petals, its firm flesh, its graceful rise
came as easily as breathing, as effortlessly as a breeze,
as if its beauty were no miracle at all.