The passion of spring awakes
with the blooming of the serviceberry,
first blooms for the early spring graves.
The rocky paths are soon strewn,
not with palm fronds,
but the blown blossoms of redbuds,
a confetti of papery pinks and faded roses.
Earth’s resurrection promise
is finally in full view
as the dogwoods bring forth their flowers,
decorating the hillsides
in Christ’s wounds.
Driving along the ridge,
Bright sun in a cold sky,
The bar ditch is filled with the first blush of spring.
Effervescent purple henbit covers the ground,
Weeds of childrens delight,
First bouquets of the season.
When my nieces were babes,
These weeds were their favorite flower until their father
Mowed the yard,
Decimating their wild flower garden and bringing bereft tears.
Did my grandfather tell me the tale of why we call the ditches
Along the roadside ‘bar ditches’?
The dirt was borrowed ‘bar-red’
To raise the road, flattened for the wagons then model Ts
To travel above the fields.
Memory sometimes obscures the truth.
I remember that my father died on Palm Sunday,
Though it is not the truth.
But that is the memory I preserve in my life’s mythology.
And it is Palm Sunday once again,
Not the date of his leave taking
But still the day I grieve.
And it is the first day of spring,
The day I remember my nieces’ grief
Over the heaped green weeds across their yard.
On this day, memory, unreliable and exact,
Borrows the joy before the grief…
Its the first of spring and all the birds sing
And little children palm frond process
Waving welcome the King into Jerusalem.
Blowing hot and cold, angry lovers
rush into each others arms, sparking
into existence their lightning filled
children, giants towering over the land.
Cumulonimbus pillars roiling with winds
and voices of thunder deep
shaking the still naked trees, pounding
aprils warming ground with vernal
tantrums and hailstones, cold and blue.
All this begatting and begetting
awash in the fundamental forgetting
of winters just passed
and springs just springing.
April’s hallelujah of re-creation intones
warming air saturated in pheromones.
Shedding my skin, casting off
the detritus of all winters,
I scrub the windows of my eyes
to reveal what was once true.
Marked by a blue streak
across my forehead, tattooed
no more by the past,
with merlin, I grow younger
I am spring!
I don’t believe
the tiniest petal
still retains a flaw-
the tracks of sun and rain.
longing for completeness,
of perfect simplicity.
The meadow in late spring
filled with bright white daisies,
lavender sweet peas
pale pink honeysuckle-
a confluence of imperfect