The Love of Nature

A red bud outside my window reaches up to me from the ground floor. His desire is for me, but I am uncertain of his intentions. Is his grasping a wickedness that seeks to steal my soul? Or is it more likely his intention is to sooth me with his thin twig hands in an earthy laying on of hands?

I choose the latter.

The limbs of willows that yesterday hung like the legs of dead spiders over the pond have burst with lime green buds. They no longer weep for me or any other. Spring overcomes their previous inclinations. They are happy for today.

So be it.

The bushes bloom with flowers I've never seen before. In pink, cream, purple and yellow--they unbud to the sun. But I did not know a bush had buds. They hid from me when it was cold. Now they unfurl from nowhere. Colorizing this black and white story.

Amen.

For that is what I want, too. I want spring. Particularly in my bones. Down into the marrow, where a few dead things may still remain, needing spring's rejuvinating flow.

I receive the love of spring.