spring is tongue-tied
last year's tan, dry beech leaves quiver in the winds of dusk
the air shouts spring,
the light upon the land is not so sure,
no wildflowers yet venture out, that I can yet find,
though cultivated flowers start to brave the day,
and the night,
for we humans love what can be out of season,
and bring it forth when we can
we bring strawberries to market every day of the year,
defying the limits of season I remember from my youth,
we like to flip to the next page
to fast forward to an end,
it is hard for us to savor the empty frame,
the power of potential,
the palette-cleansing of absence,
tomorrow I plan to give myself and my attention to water and rock,
for they still tell their stories when spring is tongue-tied,
I do so and I marvel
at the rocks I find and their stories,
and at the marvelous exuberance
where water plays upon rock beneath,
the next day spring actually speaks,
as the first hepatica brave their blossoms.
by Henry H. Walker
February 26, ‘25
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