An Early Spring The barred owl sang his last call
As the sun threw off her downy blanket
To begin a morning walk.
Nestled quietly all winter,
the first signs of stirring appeared.
Spring beauties whispered to trillium leaves
“It’s time to play.”
Jack in the Pulpit pierced the hard solid ground
saying “I’m ready to give a witness.”
Once rustling leaves had softened
Into a carpet for new friends gracing the path.
Sometimes spring can catch us by surprise in full bloom.
But after a long winter, we are ready and waiting.
We run and shed our winter coats at the first sign,
dancing and singing with new blossoms,
despite the warnings of a dogwood winter.
We, like the trout lily and Dutchman’s breeches
Celebrate spring early, so we don’t miss a thing.
The annual migration---
A rookery of ibis gather
in abaca trees along
the Ecuadorean highway.
They come south every year,
returning to these same trees.
With a cacophony of voices
they sing to passing pilgrims,
"it is good when brothers
and sisters dwell together in unity".
Every year a group of searchers
head south and make
their annual pilgrimage to the countryside
by that same highway.
They weave stories and songs
from common threads
found in working and roosting together.
Their cacophony of voices
preach joy and lament without words.
Like ibis and pilgrims,
we cross the ocean every now and then,
that divides our head and heart.
We make that migration,
And for awhile
believe love can heal the world.
Then sing in adoration for the ibis,
The pilgrim, and the journey itself.
Between Fleeting and Eternal
The space between fleeting and eternal lives
Around unexpected corners, near the turn of the seasons,
In the joyful wonder of the forest.
The background music of leafy trees sharing a melody
With a rushing river, for a chorus, grows louder in our ears.
The old mountain from where comes our strength is, for a moment,
dancing with a misty cloud that is on a dead run to beat the day.
The space between when the water takes a dive
from the mountain and before it lands, looks like a still life.
When we blink it will be over.
The sound will fade, the cloud disperse,
And the water rush towards another shore.
But for this brief, eternal moment, it is lovely.
Hanging by a thread’s thread
A wishbone of a limb
straddles a branch that grows
precariously over a deep valley.
On that limb, hanging by a thread,
a bromeliad has made a home
Leaving its roots dangling in mid air.
From one root, (attached
To the plant that is hanging
From the limb, that is balancing
On the tree growing on the edge),
a colony of moss holds an orchard.
Its hanging by a thread’s thread and yet,
The orchard blooms in silent
Praise and courage and determination.
It is more pressing sometimes to bloom
Than to worry about the truth
that someday limb, bromeliad’s root, and
Orchard will return to the valley.