I had almost forgotten Spring
when she came upon me walking along in sorrow.
It was a moment before recognition reached
these eyes, this heart,
head tilted slightly to the side,
brow furrowed slightly toward the center,
as if to inquire of a stranger who has brushed
too close for coincidence
don’t I know you from somewhere?
But Spring knew me immediately,
perhaps by the slope of my shoulders,
perhaps by the weight of my burden,
perhaps by the shape of my slightly misshapen earlobe.
There was beckoning in her greeting,
dewdrops and softly opened petals,
she was a subtle reaching, a caressing healing.
She was the kind of newness you forget
until it graces your memory with
ahh, it all comes full circle.
She was full circle.
I held her, almost (as one can only almost hold Spring)
until our time came to part ways again.
And I felt somehow different,
for having walked with her a while.
Ask me now what she told me,
and all I’ll know are hums and whispers.
Who can say if there was ever more than that?
– – –
(Spring has found me later this year than last but has found me nonetheless. This in response to an invitation to poetry from Christine Valters Paintner at the Abbey of the Arts. Go visit and read some more spring!)