Once more, the slam-dance of spring is all around us. The green ones have come again from the other world. Again the violets are bowing to the bluets. The rose will soon be tearing off her skirt in the wordless exclamations of June. Red osier dogwood, hawthorn and chokecherry blossoms. Green circles in the cedars and pine tops. Sumac sprouts as if by magic everywhere you let it. With two notes the phoebe indicates the willow catkins.
It’s all or nothing. There are small faces peering out of the grass. Starflowers and Canada mayflowers in the underbrush. Wild strawberry and dandelion suns in the lawn, speedwell, ground ivy, blue-eyed grass, mouse-ear chickweed, and stitchwort looking up from fields like stars in a small firmament. Spring runs wild like the moon sliding suddenly out of shadows and throwing white light that makes all objects so minutely visible they seem to lose their actual substance, and become things of the mind. Nothing is too tiny or insignificant to undergo the changes. A spider floating in a wind-bounced web.
My brain is running wild and a lot has to be left unsaid. Whatever we can’t talk about in June, we’ll explain in July when the world settles back, spent. It’s all too beautiful.