Hidden in the earth
a seed waits, drinking darkness.
Conceived on a summer day
when the sun suckled the earth,
fruit of wanton flowers frolicking
with passionate, hungry bees,
a seed in the womb of winter
might feel lost and forgotten.
the earth is not a grave;
it is your swaddling clothes.
Trust in the darkness,
trust in your quiescent potential
that holds all in its nothingness.
Spring will come,
and the light of lengthening days
will coax the glory of God
from the seedpod
and beckon you to itself.
Hidden in the hills,
a spring spills its secrets –
milk and honey from the womb of the earth.
Seeking its course through forest and vale,
water calls the banks of the river into being –
within you plays the song of the stream.
You are the banks of the river
and its bed
that give the water a place to go.
Unbraid your hair now, and
let the oncoming tide dissolve
your holding back.
Where the moon marries salt to sweet,
may your gathering waters
flow out to the sea.
Before work I sit beside a pond
where frogs sleep and dragonflies play.
Winter is tipping into spring,
and already French lavender sends out faint tendrils of scent;
purple blossoms flutter up rosemary branches.
This is what we’ve been waiting for,
my hibernating muse and I.
Sun just peeking over a roof touches my forehead
and dapples the rust-red algae
covering the little pond like a velvet coat.
The monarchs are departing, winging their gentle way northward.
Now the sun kisses the page of my notebook,
and daffodils praise the morning light.