The Promise of Spring

This morning around seven

Latté and I strolled outside

so she could do what dogs need to do

after dreaming all night.

The sky had a layer of wispy clouds

sheer enough to suggest that the sky

was going to be seriously blue soon.

The birds were chirping up a storm.

Raindrops were still hanging onto the branches

of the coral bark maple, just to remind me

how much raindrops can look like diamond globes.

And it smelled earthy and fertile.

Full of potential.

The day lilies are beginning announce their whereabouts

with clumps of tender leaves that look like giant blades of grass.

The jonquils are sending up sentinels of green-ness

that will soon provide a backdrop for blossoms

in whites and yellows and pinks and peaches and oranges,

blossoms with such sweet faces that they always cheer me.

The camellias and azaleas aren't even close to popping

and dazzling everyone with their colorful displays

but they've begun to tease us with swelling buds, 

saying,

"It's not quite time. Wait a little longer."

And it reminded me that there's always a promise

of renewal, of growth, of bursting into flower

after a cold, dark season of life.

It reminded me that sometimes we don't know

what's about to be born into our lives

but we can feel something about to burst forth.

Sometimes all we can do with those inklings

is wait and create a welcoming, fertile space

 for what comes next.