Today, spring is dour--for her. The air's gray,
the budding leaves quiver, then are silent,
more intensely green in this kind of day,
more. . .expectant, somehow, in their quiet.
 
 
90 degrees in San Francisco--roses,
eager to open themselves to the sun,
burst into flagrant pink glory--expose
everything, leave nothing undone!
 
 
The leafy, shadowed corner by the shed,
the one the sun angles into, reminds
me of fairy tale nooks made of vines, threads,
and pins they find--their ancient design.
 
 
The light's the sea the day is drifting through--
lazy swells and clarity, the mind's ease,
the soul's hunger met--each thing glowing, new,
a rich, soft busyness, a garden's peace.
 
 
Each morning, now, I come down to a green
world growing greener, sweeter, more intense--
winter strips the world for its months-long dream,
from which it awakes into spring's incense.
 
 
The eye brim-full with the sun's golden light
does not belong to time--beyond season,
century, beyond the empire of night,
beyond fear or hope, or ropes of reason.