We’ve passed Imbolc; technically it’s spring. I hear frogs now, most evenings. Here’s a poem to celebrate what’s on the way, from that time I completely missed it.
The Familiar Path Illustrates Opportunity Cost It's the only time of year I've walked here when the ground looks like somewhere I'd truly want to rest. I can see the hollow where some small creature did: all-heal and bedstraw, pressed and folded. As every year, the roses are striving to roof the muddy trail with a bendy arch, which they promise to decorate. I left two weeks ago, and they weren't here. But they must have been, planning. Cherries lift their fistfuls of defiance to the wind. They will be fruit! In the meantime, a glorious mess. Their buds when I left: contained. A glance away, they slipped their short and furious fluorescence. Was I thinking just now that spring is soft with welcome? It hails like I'm a taxi: come! I'm going!
—Originally published in Cascadia Rising Review, local to me here in Portland, Oregon. Thanks, Team CRR!