I enjoy the spring more than the autumn now. 
One does, I think, as one gets older.
– Virginia Woolf, Jacob’s Room
 
A brink-of-spring day and the sky invites
me to greet early robins fishing
for worms on my moss-soaked lawn.
She suggests I leave my camera behind.
Birds tend to bolt before I focus in. 
 
But with eight decades in my rearview, 
I’m not settling for repeated scenes. 
I’m off to chase landscapes across state lines –¬
snapping photos of life sloughing off winter sleep. 
I want to track Frost’s return to his neighbor’s budding wood 
and find Wright’s ponies munching twilight and grass.
Even Oliver’s herons may find a moment 
to stare and exchange curiosity.
 
What’s unexplored is lost, I explain.
No offense to robins, worms, and moss.
There’s more life beyond their well-groomed yard, 
more answers to question before the spying 
dark winds down my day.
 
The sky listens almost attentively
and, because she has better things to do,
gathers up her budding clouds, offers me
a shrug, moves on to the next neighborhood.

When April mixes memory and moss, 
twenty moles pilgrimage the yard and toss
aerated soil around our flower beds.
When three feral cats train to track red-heads 
and orange-tails, there – beneath crusty leaves –
baby snails, grubs, and worms yearn to believe 
the world was made for them. When daylight frees
itself from thoughts of winter-death and trees
convince the earth oblivion’s a hoax,
then every squill and bee engenders hope 
that sundry folk, daffodils, and sweet peas 
will raise voices with saints of every creed.
They’ll inspire young bleeding hearts to sing
about the lean elegance of waking spring.