Oh, Great Yes, whose promptings
led these little ones to leap this morning
from their safe, if crowded, nest
into the huge, unknown world,
please protect them. Keep them safe
from prowling beasts and teach them
to find shelter from the rains. Help them,
with their just-opened eyes, to see
that the world is a welcoming place,
and strengthen them with each passing hour
until they can spread their wings and fly.
Comfort their parents, who even now,
are sending anxious cries from nearby branches,
and help them to find juicy worms until
the babies learn to find them on their own.
One more thing. Accept my thanks
for letting me watch this miracle unfold
and for leading this almost-smiling fledgling
to my door. In the name of Love, which flows
unendingly from your heart, Thank You!
Until the very end, May’s bounteous gifts
unfold. Today, she brought swallowtails
and set them fluttering in the wild phlox
and in the budding peonies, damsel flies,
with their iridescent bodies and black lace
wings, darting from leaf to flower.
Just when I wondered how I could bear
more beauty, she came with jeweled gifts
and perfumed air, whispering, Receive,
child. Simply open your heart and receive.
When dawn comes and the Great Orb rises
over the eastern hills, lift up your arms
and sing Yes. Sing it in joy and thanksgiving.
As it ascends, drink in its light until you, too,
are shining. Sing Yes. Then stand tall in the world,
offering your strength and your kindness and your joy
to all who pass by, lifting them with your light.
And when the Great Orb sinks into the evening’s
golden sea, raise your arms and sing Yes,
humbly and filled with gladness, and give thanks
for another day of being in the world, shining.
Then rest, and drink the starlight and the light
of the moon, and wait for the morning’s dew
and the rising of the Great Orb, and sing Yes.
Last week I hung tiny wind chimes in my garden.
“For the flower fairies,” I said as I placed them
on the shepherd’s hooks beside the lilies.
Every morning when I go out to greet the blossoms
and to see what’s new, I give them a gentle push
and smile at their tinkling bells. Sometimes the breeze
plays in them, too. This morning, I concluded
that the fairies must approve. They left me
a bouquet of magic purple wands to wish on.
I wished them many happy days of tinkling bells.
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.