Monday, May 4, 2020

Spring


Proclamation at a Birth
Linda Pastan
                                 for Anna

Let every tree
burst into blossom
whatever the season.
Let the snow melt
mild as milk
and the new rain wash
the gutters clean
of last year's
prophecies.
Let the guns sweep out
their chambers
and the criminals doze
dreaming themselves
back to infancy.
Let the sailors throw
their crisp white caps
as high as they can
which like so many doves
will return to the ark
with lilacs.
Let the frogs turn
into princes,
the princes to frogs.
Let the madrigals,
let the musical croakings
begin.


Over and over again, the bumble bee keeps thudding against the glass windows in my office. I turn to see a deer leisurely crossing the lush green landscape. The sky is blue, so very blue. Take a deep breath – the air is fresh, clean. You can’t help but recognize this as nature’s adolescence, the days of the year when things grow at breakneck speed, procreate, store up reserves, revel in the simple privilege of existence in this global home.

All of us, including the dog and cat, can’t get enough of the sun. We are soaking up the goodness, quenching the thirst of our souls with its life-giving energy. Paradise found. No need to search for answers. Reasoning gives way to an unspoken understanding of life-affirming praise. I feel rooted to this place, to every cell pulsing here, to its gifts of unspoken grace so oft overlooked and acutely denied.

I have been engaged in many forms of making both inside and out – in the kitchen, at the keyboard, on my knees sunk in moist soil. These may be offerings, blessings uttered to ease the pain of a hurting world. These may be creations, small and meager in the midst of a crisis such as this, and yet gifts of my best intentions. These may be revelations to my soul, reminders to return to what it knows best – feeding, nurturing, expressing a few true words. What else can be done on a day such as this?

I desire nothing less than to offer you the alms of connection to the earth like the finest threads of the spider’s web blowing in the breeze this morning, perfectly constructed between beam and branch, splendor of note to us all. So, too, the blooming yeast, the turn of phrase both concise and clear, the sprouted seed. Let’s remember the glory of this day with humility, revel in every single minute, and know completely that goodness returns after the sacrifice, after the sleeves are rolled up and the hard work begun, after spring has sung its song deep into the night.