Spring Returns. Never the Same Way Twice.

Spring returns, but never the Same Way Twice

In beautiful form, and with wise eyes,

she walks the path between frost and bloom.

The season comes back...altered...older...

wiser...but more hesitant.

The thaw returns - forgetting...ignoring some odd places.

Flowers bloom out of their former order.

Here, in this new, old - yet different space

The season greets you gloriously...

even if you don’t remember it quite the same.

But, Spring never forgets its promise to Return

It may come back limping just a tiny bit,

wearing last year’s thaw like something borrowed -

Still, it reminds some rivers to run again,

while others stubbornly stay frozen,

as if defying spring to forget their sleep.

The crocuses may bloom out of order

dramatic purple irises before snowdrop,

innocent lilac before daffodil...

as if the calendar didn't matter

and the wind had scattered seeds quite arbitrarily.

Spring asks not permission...

It simply arrives, more ancient than you recall,

wiser than you expected,

more hesitant than you hoped.

And though you’ve changed,

though you no longer wait by the window

counting robins,

the season returns to find you,

your scent in the soil,

your breath in the frost,

your longing tucked beneath last year’s leaves.

The Season Speaks

“I return,” it whispers,

“not only to repeat myself,

but to see who you’ve become

since the last thaw.

I arrive older each year,

carrying the meltwater of mistakes,

cradling the pollen of small mercies.

I forget some rivers

so you may remember others.

I bloom out of order

so you stop expecting symmetry.

And you...

you who think you’ve outgrown waiting -

I remember you.

Your silence.

Your ache.

Your stubborn hope

pressed like a seed

in the dark.”

I Answer...

Rising from the thawed edges of myself,

uncertain,

but with the ache of recognition.

“I remember you,” I say,

“not by name,

but by the way you make me soften

in places I thought were permanent frost.”

I take the melting snow from your hand,

press it to my brow,

and let it bless the forgetting.

The land listens.

It exhales mist from its roots,

shivers once,

then begins to ululate to its untiring ritual.

A crocus pushes through the melting patch of soil.

A stream stutters, then sings.

The wind carries your melody

and mine

into the great unknown.