of a breeze that ruffles the curtain and enters my room,
drawing in its wake the scent of orange blossoms.
It is spring, my marriage has ended and
while two young sons lay sound asleep,
the morning song of a bird eases my desolation.
Sharp and heady, the scent of the grapefruit tree
floats through my window.
Cross country moves have been made,
lovers found and lost, jobs taken and discarded,
sons grown and gone; the nest empty.
While the mockingbird sings I look at the moon.
At the knife-edge of dawn I hear a half-forgotten sound.
“What is it?” I wonder. Then other times and other places
come to mind when just outside my window
the song bird sang and cascades of notes
fell like a spring shower. I sniff the air.
“Where are the flowers?”
This year spring has come several weeks early. The false pear trees are already in bloom, white cotton balls of blossoms coating each branch; pink trees peek out of backyards; and swards of bright orange wildflowers line the freeway. At the park a team of men rake new sawdust beneath the swings and monkey bars while the wild ducks splash in the creek.
The sun, too, is swinging in a higher arc, lighting up new corners of the patio. The cat sits in a sunbeam, prolonging her noontime toilette, then rolls on her back to expose her white untanned belly. The wind has grabbed the trees and bushes in its teeth and shaken them like a dog with a rag toy. It is Spring! Awake!
The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come,
and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land.
Song of Solomon 2:12
Picture: Pansies, M. Taylor 2008