sweet bird of budding april's pretty wing,
sat in the willow where the catkins grow,

enchanting like the river's winding flow,
small chatterbox that always loves to sing,

the blossoms kiss the sky whose wandering
finds vast crusades where fleeting warriors go,

true to their loves e'en in the bleakest snow,
or some princess who finds a sapphire ring.

enchanted lands, the bird sings in the tree,
so long forgotten once found near and far,
where streams wind yonder where the bluebirds play,

on honey branches by the windswept sea,
as if they whispered underneath a star
of princely gold the beauty of the day.

There isn’t much to this week
but on this day, intertwined in a breeze
wondering if the clouds will shower
or burst into a freeze
I read pages and pages of past
taking breaks to peel pears
and slice the strawberries
drizzling honey onto plates
and savouring the sweetness of spring fruit
I think of all the mountains I've yet to climb
and how much I look forward to the rain
but parts of me still hold onto autumn
and the feeling of watching the trees
shift into a new ending
It’s just like how these days
I keep returning to the shelves on these walls
picking up all the books
from every conversation in the past
and trying to, once again, read between the lines
to decipher when those questions
became answers

clouds of pink on the cherry sigh,
sweet, whispering flowers fall and fall,

they lie upon the mossy wall,
clouds falling from a pink-sea sky,


flowers of the wind, confetti, rice,
papery stream like a pressed dry rose,

blossom song, the tireless breezes blow,
bewitching bower of cherry-flower ice.


a stream of melancholy green,
dances through the shades of the trees

the pink blooms sweep the river's breeze,
dry on stones, cherry-petal scenes....

These sounds of silence
Rumble and roar
I’m in a constant state of questioning
Asking what love is,
Filling in the gaps between all my questions
With the things we saved for March
Relishing in the idea of spring
And what it means to bloom
Peeling away at citrus,
Reaching for the plums and nectarines
In the icebox, scarfing down cooled melon
Picking at peonies and daffodils
Thinking about tea but hating its taste
I was never a morning person
But the sun these days is so new

But it’s when the winter creeps back
And I awake to a morning frost
Bits of past, pieces of December
Pine trees and heating cars
I remember the worth of remembering
And the reality of how time moves
And how all these questions
Sprinkle down with snow, rain,
sun rays, or leaves
never leaving, never eased
only knowing that I don’t know
and that seasons don’t return; they just pass

I feel its living breath
close now
scented soft upon my shoulder
shivers the breeze
every lamb,
every flower,
every blossoming tree
I do not walk through spring
it walks through me

My old cat in spring
twitches his ear at passing bees
and sniffs at the lavender scented breeze
then he warms his belly and starts to purr
with a little less winter stuck to his fur

It is all pastel,

the light, the music and I --


this very spring day.

Ice melts on the Lake.
Fish will move into shore soon.
Please bring back the dock.

Anxiously waiting.
I just bought some more tackle.
March, please be a lamb.

Walleyes taste the best.
Get the hot Cajun batter.
I feel a slight tug.

The rain pipes whisper
The spring’s secret in the wind
Let me catch it in my wings
And flutter it in the world
So everybody learns how to blossom.