In a Grudging Spring - May 27 2023

 

In a Grudging Spring

May 27 2023

The buds are only now unfurling

in a grudging spring

I thought would never come.

So is it any wonder

perpetual winter crossed my mind;

not just no summer

but a new ice age?

The tight new leaves

are precisely formed miniatures,

succulent

and freshly minted green.

They begin life

greedy for sun,

opening upward

like imploring hands.

And growing in real time,

filling out the sky

almost as I watch.

Such an ordinary thing, a leaf.

But familiarity

conceals the intricate molecular machinery

so impossibly compressed

in this paper thin vessel.

That survives a harsh winter.

That knows when it's time.

And that, even more incredibly

lives by eating light;

given freely

like a bottomless feast

to all who desire.

Greedily drinking in

because the season is short.

And for the rest of us

shade,

a cool place

on a hot day

on a bed of autumn leaves

on the forest floor,

soft and dry

and bled of their chlorophyll.

I sit

leaning against the trunk,

legs

stretched out in front of me.

And in the gentle breeze

the rustle of leaves

is like easy-listening jazz

in the dead of night,

a Brahms lullaby

played pianissimo.

Lulling me to sleep

and dreams of who knows what.