Green moss on a dark, damp trunk,
gray sky, a pale glow bleeding down from beyond…
The first day of Spring.
Soft blush of light, wet hints of color, whispers of warmth to come.
And the earth is brushed with broad strokes of green
grass awakening to that luminescent hint of sun from above.
Sky is alive with sounds, birds flitter
scavenging winter’s husks to construct new nests.
Glorious shoots of crocus and daffodil thrust up through dun-colored leaf
and coffee-dark soil.
They seem to rise higher by the hour
lusting for the light and moist warm air.
Gazing out my back window, music lulls me into a dream
of past vision melding into the archetype of ‘Spring’.
“Come down in time”, the gentle voice croons.
This moment of awareness rooted in Now,
yet each memory reflects the echoes of the echoes
of echoes of memories of every springtime I have known;
echoes of selves that bridge the illusion of years,
like diamonds strung on a spider’s web.
Around and around, it all comes back again
to the cycles of life and death and life…
Now it is Spring.