Spring is upon us,
and so, accordingly,
stalk all these mysterious
shoots and buds—
soon to be proudly
individual leaves,
hardy stems, or
delicate flowers of
profligate texture—
perhaps daffodils,
creeping jennies, or ivy
tendrils, red then green—
redolent blasts
of lilac, magnolia,
musk of crab apple,
dogwood, and pear branches,
all quaking in rainstorms to
make their return.
And with this recurrence
resurges our belief
in balance, routine,
process, remedy, faith;
each new petal, frond,
and leaflet blooms
as a new vowel sound
in a rustic and obscure
sort of prayer—
that every injury out there
currently festering
for lack of care,
every poison, pestilence,
canker, infection,
every malady on earth
may come to us perfectly
paired with its cure.
