Not one of your days has passed, sweet April,
without my thinking, “Surely this is a dream.”
And yet, each of your hours revealed more
loveliness than any mere human mind
could, in its loftiest hours, bring into being.
And all of it, without our deserving even
the humblest flower. What love the Yes
bestows! What tender, magnificent grace!
Throughout the day, thunder rumbled
beneath thick clouds and rain drenched
the lilacs, the dogwood,
and the deep greening lawn, its fragrance
filling our rooms. We went about our tasks,
moving softly, the atmosphere of springtime
gentling our movements. As evening
settled in, the sun broke through,
gilding the oak’s emerging leaves
with a hue that only spring can know,
the color of hope fulfilled and
promises kept. And we drifted to sleep
that night, our hearts full of Yes
After the storm, the setting sun
swept the sky with fiery gold,
illuminating clouds as large
as mountains towering above
the trees. You could imagine
a thousand trumpets sounding
a grand hurrah, as if the sky
itself was saluting April
for all she had given, for all
the wonders she had birthed,
for all that she had overcome,
and now was crowning her glory.
And we who watched in awe
felt the Yes sing in our hearts
and gave our assent
with great joy.
Now it’s all green lace, fresh as rain,
and flowers, wantonly strew
across the woodland’s floor,
crowding the roadsides, dancing
free as wind in the unplowed fields
to the songs of countless birds.
You can keep your Summerland.
When I die, I want to go to the place
in heaven where it’s eternal Spring.
“Thank you” seems so small a phrase,
so wholly inadequate in the face of this burgeoning green,
of these fields and hills, spilling over now with flowers
beyond counting, in hues beyond our power to name.
Still, I kneel before the pristine trillium and can conjure
no other response. What utter mystery,
how such varied beauty can rise from mere earth,
and that we should be here, in the midst of it,
Along the border separating our yard
from our neighbors, lilacs bloomed,
a long row of them, in shades of
lavender and deep purple, maroon
and white, their fragrance wafting
through late April’s open windows,
scenting the entire house.
Great bouquets of them graced
our kitchen’s table, and we sat,
after meals, gazing at them
in silence, breathing their perfume
as if it were dessert. Among
all the fragrances of spring, the
scent of the lilac, above all others,
fills me with pure rapture,
and with memories sweet and pure,
carrying me back to childhood,
carrying me back to home.
For Mike, who loves white dogwood blossoms
Head off to dreamland
with a heart full of flowers,
white as the moon, sailing
across the nighttime sky.
Lasso one of them with
a rope of your best wishes
and let them float you
through the stars, the music
of the spheres singing
the Yes to you, telling you,
clearly, that you are dear
Rest in simplicity, and yet
let your song be clear and strong.
This is the moment for which
you were born, the now
in which you unfold your grace
and make your mark on the eternity
of our hearts, so that we may sing
the Yes with you until
the last star fades
from the deep and infinite sky.
It’s not the circumstances that matter.
So what if, at any moment, the world
may explode? It has nothing to do
with me, with now. The trees are
dancing in green hoorahs and the earth
is covered in flowers. The mammoths,
they say, died eating daisies. If
the world ends in ten minutes,
I shall die dancing with joy.
The world is so filled with beauty now
that I hardly know where to look.
My eyes skitter from branch to ground
and back again, and at every turn
loveliness greets them, so rich,
so tender, so varied that they dissolve
me into an ocean of wonder and