For a month, we’ve noticed
tender green sprouts—
too early not to freeze or
be trampled, often poking
out of dried-brown leaves
of last fall. Do you hear
their crinkle in
the breeze?
On our walks, we’ve created
a game—are they crocus,
jonquils, tips of hosta? We’ve
savored forsythia and lilac buds,
the red tint of oaks, the pale
green of maples.
I have always loved early
Spring’s pops of color, signs
of growth and new life to come;
births and passings of loved
ones, of this year’s departed
and a yet-to-be-born
grand-nephew.
This spring, we also have the brown
water of floods and mudslides,
the yellow and red flames of fire,
leaving grey-black ash and debris
in war zones—Ukraine, Gaza,
Haiti. And the orange man—I’ll
not use his name—threatening
a bloodbath.
Kathy Conway lives and writes in New England and is increasingly frustrated with the state of the world.
