Spring Celebration

I awake to a cold house on a spring morning before sunrise, make coffee, do a little writing while trying to keep the neighbor kitty out of my face.
Then I walk to town.

Sleeping part of yesterday away, burned I guess from several weeks of being very responsible,
I dream healing, get-back-into-my-body dreams.

Walking to town through the long rays of spring morning light, chilly pure air,
I remember having walked this road, in this light, at this hour and this time of year and then...
I am twenty.

I know this magic, tears start, the sudden knowing.

A rusty chair in the garden, facing renewal, the sunrise.
It is magic. The nettles spring up an inch a day through weathered cedar boards.
Birdsong. Millions of years of evolution and they honor each spring with iridescent, glowing vitality.

Every growing thing celebrates, Audaciously!

Black, barren soil collects the warmth to incite crocus and daffodil to herald the four-and-a-half billionth coming of Christ or Vishnu or Matakwease or Celtic goddess or just Spring.

Faded seed packets mark early greens in my garden planted before the last frost

Snow dripping, water gathering, moving down crystal.
Branches trailing wakes in a powerful icy river, refreshing the sea.

Magic says if you honor more, you get more.

Then, Jake plunges into the river as two small ducks drift by in their search for breakfast.
I yell at him. He says looking at me puzzled,

“I know I could catch them for you, just let me at them. You’d be so proud of me. I know
you’d like to have them”

I laugh out loud. He’s so sincere.

So... you’ve been given the power, honored with it. GO CREATE!

Only humans forget what the rest of the growing things always remember.
Is it my work, to help remind? The highest form of creation for me?

I guess I am a priest, not a warrior or healer or king, and I’m afraid to take the responsibility to always remember. Always. Myself. Now.

Spring-warmed barren hearts, Arise!

Plunge hands, wrist-deep into warmed black soil. Celebrate!