bluebirds

Spring has grown sultry.
She is ready to retire,
to cede her scepter to summer.
But a week of her reign remains,
so she is still supervising her season,
sending signals that Spring, early or late,
renews the world again and again.
She began by sweeping away
the wilds of winter,
dancing fresh life into the year—
fresh color
fresh birdsong,
fragrant drifts of blooming perfume.
Even this week,
as summer taps on her shoulder,
Spring still dazzles us with generous gifts.
From the bluebird box
full-feathered fledglings emerge,
flighty, fluttery,
new to this whole bubbling, burbling,
babbling world,
chirping and hungry,
open-mouthed and waiting to be fed.
Young flickers forage on their own,
find the suet,
hesitate,
taste,
dart away,
return.
A little finch bumps the back window,
falls and sits stunned for a while,
then flies to rest in a pot of sunflowers.
At last, with a brave leap,
she wings her way up, up, up
high into an elm.
Below in the petunias,
a small dove settles,
soft gray with dark, watchful eyes
peering around vivid pink petals.
Spring’s reign is one of hope,
and though she will soon take her bow,
she leaves us with new life and growth
and a promise to return next year
to waltz us out of winter
and wake the sleeping world
once again.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:

Shadow of the week:

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“Everything is terrible,” she said,
“except for daffodils.”
I nodded.
Everything seems so, so terrible—
except the daffodils are blooming.
And the lenten roses.
And forsythia and saucer magnolias.
Cherry blossoms tumble in the breeze
like spring snow.
Everything is terrible—
except for the violets scattered across the lawn
and the purple-red blossoms on the redbuds.
The hyacinths’ perfume smells heavenly.
Newborn leaves, feather-fine
sprout on the tulip poplar.
The whole treescape wears a green sheen.
Bluebirds are moving into the birdhouse.
Doves, cardinals, chickadees, sparrows
sing welcome to the warmth of spring,
Children run and play, smile and laugh.
I hold out both of my hands, palms up.
In one, I feel the weight of everything terrible,
in the other, the fullness of everything good,
for goodness and beauty have weight too.
I try to find the balance.
I wish all people,
everyone everywhere,
could hold only goodness, kindness, beauty.
But life has never been that way.
Maybe someday?
For now, I close my hand around the terrible,
feel it as a hard, jagged rock.
I cannot let it go, for it is real and demanding,
and I cry for it,
for I know that it does not have to be.
But then there is my other hand,
my always open hand,
holding the weight of goodness,
which is surprisingly firm and powerful
even as it sits soft as a butterfly in my hand.
Goodness, kindness, beauty—
in this hand is life,
creating and recreating,
loving and laughing,
always growing like spring.
This open hand is for sharing,
especially when it seems that everything is terrible.
Yes, there is this hard, jagged, hurtful rock,
but look—
see?
There is also a butterfly.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:

Shadow of the week:

If you want me to send these thoughts to your email each Sunday, simply sign up on the right.

Carry the Calm

Karyn Henley

Spring’s Last Dance

Except for the Violets