I promised you that when the snow was deep
and I had begun to believe that winter was eternity,
I would remember you. I would remember
your countless shades of green, your plush grass
buzzing with bees and clover, and the smell of it.
I would remember the warmth of your sun
and the blessing of the breeze singing through
your dancing leaves, and the sheer, inviting
welcome of your being.
And now that day has come, the one where I began
to believe that winter would go on forever.
I confess that I didn’t choose to remember;
the memory of you came to me on its own,
drifting across the cold, gently emerging
with a touch of kindness that I could not ignore.
And so I sit here, before my fire, waiting
for the assault of another coming storm,
and I lose myself in your rolling verdant hills
until my eyes tear with gratitude
for comfort of you, for remembering
you are as real as the cold, and will return.
It was one of those summer days that the geese tucked into their memory stores to recount to one another on long, winter nights. They would tell about how they sat on the lawn and ate their fill of the bugs that crawled between the blades of grass. They would remind each other how wonderful the grass smelled, newly mown as it was, and brimming with white clover.
Normally, the humans filled the park. But they disappeared in the rain as if it would melt them and rain had fallen all morning long and threatened to return. So the geese had the place to themselves. And they sat on the earth amidst the waves of grass and preened themselves, and slept and dreamed, wrapped in the green luscious smell of it all, breathing it into their hearts, bathing in joy.
Summer dances on the brink of turning, her dreams of spring and of autumn equally far away.
Today she is fully summer and in her glory as she pauses in the stream of time. This day, strewn with goldenrod and clover, this day of light and shadows falling from the blue sky and playful clouds, is her moment of perfection.
Warm breezes blow through her long grasses and cicadas and bees sing her song.
I walk her fragrant fields, enveloped in her rich perfume. She looks down through a hawk’s eyes and is pleased.
Even the familiar paths change. Now there is rain, now snow, now tracks, now none. Walk slowly; look with fresh eyes.
Notice the bends, the dips, the rises, the changes in texture. See how the light paints new hues across the distant trees.
Only a few moons ago, butterflies danced in clover right here on this very spot. Songbirds sang in green trees.
And here we are, up to our ankles in shimmering crystals and the earth is sleeping and still.
None of the daisies saw the field the same way. Some watched the sky, some watched the birds, some gazed at the leaves in the trees. Some talked with the tiny flowers next door, some chatted with grass and some with clover.
Some bent to the east and some to the south, and others looked every which way in between. Some were tall and peered from the top of long stems. Some were wee, barely knee-high to the others.
Some were awake, and some were dreaming. Some laughed at the tickle of bees gathering their pollen. Some giggled at the tiny ants that climbed on their petals and leaves.
The Great Yes wants to experience life from every possible perspective, you see. That’s why there are countless stars and snowflakes. That’s why there’s eternity. Even a month full of daisies, stretched as far as the eye can see, are but a flicker of the whole. And yet, the Great Yes wouldn’t be what it is without them, every single one.
The time of billowing clouds has come, when the clover is in blossom and the sweet grass is high.
Beneath the noon sun, the fragrances of summer rise from the earth in a rich perfume and children play in the orchard.
Now, in these long days, let us take some time for leisure. The planting is done; the earth is growing her harvest.
Let us take some time to be merry and to savor these hours, bright with the goodness of life. Let’s sit on the porch swing and drink lemonade and hold each other’s hands as if we were young lovers.
Tell me your stories, and I’ll pretend they’re new while I listen, still dazzled by your beauty.
These are the clover days, full or bounty, when the earth is sweet and each moment reeks with good fortune and joy.