The long sad winter pulled our souls into
hibernation and left us struggling into spring.
We don’t automatically awake from such sleep
as seedlings do that have to reach for the light.
We all ponder the nature of our futures though
still groggy under gray skies and shivering in
the chill winds of early spring that eat at ice
at the edges of partly frozen waters.
We’re cheered by the greening grass. But
fragile yet, we’re not ready to make raucous,
demanding cries as the spring peepers and
chorus frogs will, asserting their froggy selves.
As the sun rises higher and a pale green
haze grows, we all, even the young, wonder
how to make ourselves anew in the growing
warmth as we breathe in the air of uncertainty.
Sap has run strong in the maple trees who
know their place in the world. The tree
outside my window knows when buds
on its bare branches are ready to unfurl.
I wish I knew when my future will unfold.
What work in progress am I, aging every year?
I ponder this and the approaching renewal of
the world as I admire the clay pot holding two-
inch tall green seedlings that know
they are becoming arugula.