When Flowers Speak

The flowers speak a soliloquy to a hushed crowd,

an opening to the show of spring

As the curtains pull back of Winter’s veil,

soft gazes come to focus on the smallest hint of pink

Pressing in from beyond ourselves,

yet pulling us with them onto the stage of Spring

Oh how can we not join the flowers in song?

Even with all the dead wood and musty cellar spaces of our heart—

As if we had secretly come to all the rehearsals in the long shadows of Winter

Lingered in the late night practices of presence

Taking shapes in space,

line by line, stripping the story down to scene by scene,

Breath to bone

So when the flowers open speaking their colors to the wind

We find ourselves both in the awe of audience and

up with them on the stage of beauty,

singing our praises of Aliveness

Out loud to the wind of Spring,

All the while still smelling the dank daisies from last spring that nourish THIS blooming

Blessed be the arrival of Spring!