May your snowdrops thrive after the snowmelt;
may your tulips bloom under an aspiring sky.
Enjoy the tantalizing idea that it’s finally spring.
In spring, when I always think of nature poems
of Kenneth Rexroth, and relive inhaling the redolent
air suffused with the scent of the blooming
lily-of-the-valley on that spit of land
stretching a full mile along the shore at Gate 36
in the North Quabbin woods. When I always think
of the lyrics of Cole Porter;
when the color of the Holyoke Range segues with
the shades of daffodils—
that light-green-going-to-yellow. When flocks
of red-winged blackbirds return to call kon-ker-ree,
perched on reeds; and barn swallows chirp
and chatter in flocks over the marsh, is what makes
the springtime spring; may you begin
to dance; and if you can’t dance, find a way to sing.
