Spring Phase.

I feel a phase of gentleness coming,
full of berry tastes, bitter, sweet, playful.
The morning milk of seeds resting in un-asking earth tip my tongue to spring,
the taste of newness yet again unfolding.

And new in love and danger both to show shoot green above dead last years leaves.
For this is no scheme of sense, no childish dream that crushed by treading circumstance can spring again in reverie unscathed.
This gentleness is bold,
it knows the run of being is a thread,
that life is given once to do or not its bidding.

That all that’s in my head is history of the browning leaves
that move not, ‘sept for pushing shoots.
So green in fear and red in zest I choose to rise to be the truth of trees,
to bear the fruit,
to ride the wind,
to bloom in sun for bees.