Echoes Of Spring

There is a gift that comes with spring, the rains fall and water rushes in the creek, the budded rose reaches out for light, a mockingbird trills a greeting to the sun. The dew on the new grass brings a memory, a foggy morning in April, a softening of things. Then I can see again and shed the winter cloak, and sing again the existential rhapsody. I will trade the poetry of sunset for dawn, for now the green parrots streak past despair seeking their secret destination in tomorrow. Soon the osprey calls to the renewing breeze. These are the echoes of spring and youth. The depression of winter lifts on rising air. Noon reveals benign buttermilk cloud flakes. Old men watch as lovers pass by laughing. These things are left to the patient observer, the planet turns, moon and sun race with time. The swaying pines are like a metronome, counting the tick and tock of earth's rhythms.