Late Spring

Spring came late this year.
It was cold and gloomy on Easter,
like a day in late November,
and then the next week
temperatures rocketed into the high eighties,
leaving us perspiring in tank tops and shorts
before the first leaf was even on the trees.

Now, after a long warm up, a symphony of cherry trees
has exploded into concertos of pink and white,
the larks and thrushes are chirruping me awake
every morning through my open window,
and my little cat stalks the new clover of my front lawn,
searching for the small, furry critters she hears
scurrying under my porch in the night.
I fear she will find the groundhog which, I am sure, lives here.

The wind is now a breeze
and the smell of manure and fresh-tilled earth
rises up to me from the valley. I stand outside,
looking out on the farm land spread out below me
and at the hills,
which are turning a light, timid green.

I am not fooled by spring's slowness.
I am relieved to not be responsible for its progression.
I am happy to just be a part of it,
A creature in this new, green world, a creature
with as much power to rush spring
as I have power to spin the earth on its axis.

I marvel at my finiteness--and,
for the first time in my life--
thank God for it.

Oh the pleasures of the created,
the lightness of being for those
who are not responsible for the song of a thrush,
or the red-gold of the morning sun!