In Love With Spring

I’m in love with Spring. The brave and tender beauty of nature awakening enters my senses with such intensity it leaves me breathless. But breathe I must. I breathe through my pores, through the soles of my feet, through my solar plexus, until the beauty rushes in like a drug and renders me as alive as a lover who longs to rush into the arms of her beloved. But there is no beloved to receive my physical embrace, and so I’m left with the empty space of the unrequited.

How can I express my gratitude? How can I share my joy? How I can I communicate to spring that I see her, I receive her, I love her. It’s not enough to whisper thank you; I must send it back to her on her warm wings in the best way I know how: through words. To this end, I’m reminded of a poem I wrote years ago during the early months of my relationship with my husband:

Breathe in Spring

Breathe in spring, he said to me, the

deep inhalation that detects the

first thaw, a

purple flower that should not be

in bloom but

cannot help itself,

must struggle to be released from

winter’s heavy overcoat and

declare itself free.

 

Breathe in spring, he said as

dawn broke, and he spoke in a

low tone that hung heavy

from love, like the golden sap

dripping out from the soul of

a maple tree.

 

Breathe in what has not yet arrived,

he reminded me,

what aches to be,

what is waiting for your breath to

reach into the atmosphere and

extract a tail of Life from

winter’s grasp.

Inhale that tiny spark of

newness into your red womb,

feel the quickening,

the yes! that tag-teams from

cell to cell until your entire

body is astream in

its own awakening.

You are free, he tells me.

You are a woman on the edge, he whispers.

You are full of stars, he breathes.

You are becoming who you are meant to me.