So gently the curtain falls as May takes her final bow. I stand, watching her last blush of coral and rose fade in the western sky. Soon the stars will rise and offer their ovation.
It all went past too quickly, her brimming moments, pouring out their wonders and delights.
If I could, I would spread your springtime across the forever of my days. But since I cannot, may you live , beautiful May, forever in me.
Oh, the laughing lushness of it all! Since the last moon, what was barely born has so richly flourished. The world that was just waking is full now of greenery and song. The tentative is established and eagerly reaching toward its heights.
In the fields and gardens, jeweled flowers grow. Birds and butterflies color the perfumed air. The babies have traded their nests for a dance in the singing, emerald world.
And May, her work at its end, surveys it all one final time, and with quiet pride smiles at all her children. “Prosper, my darlings,” she sings to them, her sweet voice full of love and joy. “Prosper.”
May, the bounteous, beautiful one, sweeps a final wash of rose across the garden. Soon the rains will carry these petals onto the grass and they will fade into memory.
But today, their glow holds, and they float on the air like flamboyant globes of gladness bobbing on a green sea.
And my eyes drink them in and write their fervent Yes on my soul, and I am made whole by their song.
Long after you have gone, sweet May, your memory will live on. You, with your arms full of flowers, dancing in a cloud of laughter across the warm and lengthening days. You, with your songbirds and perfumes, welcoming babies and greening the earth. You, with the butterflies fluttering through your hair, painting rainbow colors everywhere and washing the mornings with dew.
Your gifts are too many to number. With such gentleness you press them into our hearts. Long after you have gone, they will linger there, coloring our souls.
And when the winds of winter blow, we shall dream of wild phlox and white lilacs.
The choir of flowers, dressed in their best blues, gathered to sing of the sky. One by one, they took their places, silent as they waited for the signal to begin.
At last the tall one stretched its green arms upward and pointed to the feathery blues who were grouped on the center stage. Their voices were rich, and deeper than you would have supposed, and their harmony was perfect and strong.
They sang the ancient verses about the birth of the sky, how it thundered into being and stretched itself across forever. It was a song of ecstasy and endless power.
And when their verses were through the hundreds of waiting blues took up the chorus in a great rhapsody of praise that soared upward, upward to the very face of the sky whose beauty they sang. And all the world reverberated with their joy and celebration.
Iris, the legendary goddess of the rainbow, billows her brilliant clouds above the rising sun, over the rolling purple sea.
Sweet messenger of heaven, she sings of the peace that follows the storms, of the light that follows the darkness.
She is the promise of morning, the arch of hope, the sign of grace unfurled and blessing all.
“Never forget, dear children,” she sings, “You are not abandoned, and never alone.”
The hawk sat utterly still on the branch of the tree. We stared at each other for quite some time, each of us believing the other was a visitor in a world that each of us thought of as our own.
We were, of course, both correct.
The leaves and vines and brush that framed him, there on the edge of the woods that rose up from the edge of the river, wore every shade of green. And each of us, I thought, were here to witness it and to attest to its perfection.
How delicate this life, how fragile! How splendid, how beautiful, how grand!
Here, amidst forces so powerful they surpass our understanding, a butterfly sips nectar from a flower. A baby flutters its eyelashes. A hummingbird flies in the breeze.
Here, the Great Yes sings its most tender songs. Here, it reveals its most gentle depths. Here, it protects, and nurtures, and showers us all with its grace.
And how beautiful the life here, how fragile and splendid and grand.
Everything was new and wonderful. Snuggling with Mom was cozy. Finding seeds and bugs in the grass was fun. The feel of the sun warming their down was splendid. But most of all the goslings loved swimming.
The water called to them the moment they hatched. They heard its gentle splashes and breathed its delicious fragrance and they knew immediately that it was where they belonged.
They loved how it swirled around their bodies and upheld them. They loved paddling through it with their webbed feet. They loved the scent of it and its motion. It felt like home.
They didn’t know yet that one day they would fly. That would come much later and be an even greater thrill. But for now, the lake was heaven and the reason they were born. And swimming beside their mother made them feel strong and proud and glad to be alive.
For my Mom
I love the way white lilacs blossom on your birthday, their heady fragrance perfuming the air. I can see the ecstasy on your face as you breathed in their sweetness, the way your eyes danced at the sight of them filling the vase on your table.
You were pleased by such simple things. A bouquet of wildflowers, the singing of birds, a sunrise over the bay unfailingly evoked your delight.
I hear your laughter as I stand amidst these fragrant blooms and memories of you, warm as the day’s sun, roll across the decades and touch my heart with love, and with gratitude, and joy.