Spring Again

After winter’s ragged grin, spring comes greening in
with leaf-curling smiles of hope for new beginnings:

delirious-wild-flowerings in the serious month of May
and, in spite of Eliot’s cruelest month, crocus and Iris

and lilac and clematis, jonquils and tulips all
rise up from their sleep in the perfumed poetry of April

fading then back into oblivion never to be retrieved
again until next year, when the cycle begins again

with redbud trees and nomophobia blooming against
the heart again. Honeysuckle vines and bridal wreath

streaking through the palms up through the arms
to the heart and lungs and brainstem of this organism

which is a small part of the vast organism of air
and water and leaf and cloud and dirt and stars

we sometimes call “this vast creation,” for lack of better
words or more elegant turns of phrase. The earth is all

before me as Wordsworth said long ago. So I cannot miss
my way, even if my only guide is a pale wandering cloud.