W.S. Merwin
No more than a week and the leaves
have all come out on the ash trees
now they are more than half open
on the ancient walnuts standing
alone in the field reaching up
through the mute amazement of age
they have uncurled on the oaks from
hands small as the eyelids of birds
and the morning light shines through them
and waits while the hawthorn gleams white
against the green in the shadow
in a moment the river has
disappeared down in the valley
the curve of sky gliding slowly
from before not seeming to move
it will not be seen again now
a while from this place on the ridge
but over it the summer will
flow and not seem to be moving
Every change of every season for the vast majority of my adult years has taken me by surprise. You would think by now I would get how this works, but the suddenness of the shifts is always shocking. It seems like one minute my little bubble is encased in white coldness then in an instant, it's bursting at the seams with green. Winter to spring is always the most drastic and from Boston to Portsmouth then a bit farther north to the lake, it has been interesting to see the variations in when and how spring emerged. But now, everywhere and everything is ripe, green and full. I'm savoring it!
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