We waited all winter for signs of life,
skunk cabbage poking through the muck,
the eastern phoebe's song,
the red maple's crimson cloud.
And now spring is here,
the early garden swiftly morphing
from bare ground and fallen leaves
into rosy bleeding hearts and creeping phlox,
golden ragwort and bellwort,
and Jacob's ladders' delicate blues.
We waited so long for what is too soon over.
Ephemeral beauty beckons,
inviting us into the moment.
Gifted by what we cannot control,
is this not grace?
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