The great gift of winter is to make us love spring more.
Daffodils, tulips, hyacinths, Easter Lilies. And the plum blossoms stun.
Here's a poem from my book, Buddha's Dogs, for spring:
The lawn chair is plaid and coming apart,
strips of the weave unweaving
as I bask in the last of the sunlight
I found by the door to the laundry room,
beside the anonymous bush
with the flowers petaled
like spokes of a wheel
and the crayon yellow
I knew as a child.
And now I remember
my Easter dress
and the yardage department
in J.C. Penney's basement
where my mother and I
are moving slowly down the aisles of cotton.
The sky is the color of her eyes,
and at my feet is the pile of pine needles
I swept up and forgot,
wanting the last of the sunlight
and the various songs of the birds,
especially the long clicking
that repeats every two seconds
and must be a mating call.
I'm feeling sexy
staring at the water meter,
its glinting pipes and bolts and knobs,
and at the shivering (a little wind now)
apple and silky plum.
The patch of sunlight is shrinking,
but the iris has plummeted up
among weeds and wild raspberries,
purple flames licking out of green stalks,
and it's cold now, the sun gone behind the pines,
their green darkened by dusk, time
to go inside on this Sunday
when everything is resurrecting
from winter, from memory, from loss.
Causes Susan Browne Supports
Run Together, A Race to Raise Money for Leukemia and Lymphoma Society