Fleeting

 

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? 

With the Wild Ones

On this Easter day, as others flock
to churches and organ music or
brass ensembles proclaiming
the resurrection of Jesus,
I am drawn to quiet,
to the woodlands and
the silence of all but birdsong and
the wind in the trees and
the running stream's murmuring 
over rocks.
Here I can kneel and give thanks for 
the carpet of these tiny ones on the forest floor -
spring beauties and dwarf ginseng and 
trout lily, blooming where nobody sees 
or appreciates them. Except me.
And God.

I wonder at the garden 
where Jesus was laid.
Was it as lovely and
as peaceful as here,
where I walk with Him
this morning?
In this this time-created garden
not made with human hands,
we sit together,
He and I,
and with the wild ones 
we enjoy our own
quietly exuberant
celebration 
of Easter.