Spring is a witch in trollop’s clothing 
wearing white gloves to church. Demure 
as a schoolgirl, wild as unfettered joy. 
Uncontainable yet married to the limits 
of constellations watching from afar.

No one wears a sunflower in their hair.
Only sages sit by streams and whistle
feathers. Spring has captured my spirit
in her web of freedom and flung me 
to the outer reaches of Sylvanus’ lair.

Contradictions run riot and where 
they come together and mix, small
miracles bloom. Snowmelt, cold bluster, 
soft rain and strengthening sun conspire
in the sweet fragrance of hyacinth.

Mood swings and reveries, a sudden
longing for strawberries and I am
running for my seedlings and shovel.
So much is germinating, waiting to
burst forth beyond my usual reticence.

Fairy grass is sprouting from my hair. 
Gardenias drape the hem of my cotton voile 
dress. I dance with tree sisters, chant with 
cardinals in the wind. Moving with the force
of the season, I am once again untamed.
                        

i wanted to follow hope 
down a narrow country 
road bordered on both 
sides by redwoods and fir,
wanted to pay homage 
to sleeping seeds and the 
silent dead– to celebrate 
the innocence of field  
mice and ferrets.

In the meadow ahead, 
the path dead ended. I 
curled beneath clumps 
of giant ferns; their lacy 
fronds sheltered me from 
wind and rain. Here, despair 
caught up with me, wanted 
to take root, to take my
sorrow for the world, turn it 

into quicksand and ash. But 
sensitive branches nearby 
understood that I felt lost; 
they told me that I was free 
to dream a shape-shifting 
world where love rings out 
like church bells everywhere 
and kindness is offered
like bridal bouquets.