Last spring I planted
a dozen perennials
along our fence.
The fence came down
to be painted;
A baby was born
overlooking the garden;
Winter came and went.
The fence remains down —
it has yet to be painted.
Our growing boy fills my arms —
I have not weeded.
Spring rains have called the earth to grow.
My flowers are blooming.
They give me the gift of their beauty —
and all I have to do is walk outside
He is reaching —
to bring the world close.
Arms out. Open.
The air was heavy
We felt it coming —
. . .
Dancing in the raindrops
Going to sleep
with their windows open;
to the sound.
. . .
I go into their rooms later
to close the windows
and find them sprawled out,
dreaming of rain.
I am watching him sit in the spring woods.
Light, filtering through newly budding trees.
Light so brilliant. So fleeting.
Tiny blooms cover the forest floor. Violets. Spring beauties. Trillium. Trout lillies. Where do they come from? Where do they go?
A carpet of vibrant green has emerged from brown earth. Green today. Brown again tomorrow.
This light, these flowers, the green — it will all fade away when the leaves fill out. The woods will transform into a place of dark and deep.
But, today, we have this.
Have you read “The Story of the Root Children” by Sibylle von Olfers? It is a beautiful classic children’s book. Amabel says Wallace looks like a “root child” in his brown wooly suit.
And today he did indeed look like he crawled out of the pages of that story land.
So many hours,
I linger here.
next to him.
Everything is Waiting for You
Your great mistake is to act the drama
as if you were alone. As if life
were a progressive and cunning crime
with no witness to the tiny hidden
transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny
the intimacy of your surroundings. Surely,
even you, at times, have felt the grand array;
the swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding
out your solo voice You must note
the way the soap dish enables you,
or the window latch grants you freedom.
Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity.
The stairs are your mentor of things
to come, the doors have always been there
to frighten you and invite you,
and the tiny speaker in the phone
is your dream-ladder to divinity.
Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into
the conversation. The kettle is singing
even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots
have left their arrogant aloofness and
seen the good in you at last. All the birds
and creatures of the world are unutterably
themselves. Everything is waiting for you.
— David Whyte