Spring Without

It's one of those rare spring days when we step outside, coffee in hand, and into bright silence.

From across the greening field the woodland tints thrill us, infant leaves as yet unfurled, backlit by the sun.

Call it a condition of maturity, of living long enough to have our ghosts within us, but on such mornings as this, we think of the beloved dead, those with whom we still want to share the news that the pear tree has bloomed, or that we have just tasted the first green onions of the year.

And yet, splitting firewood at the cabin, pausing a moment to brush the maple blooms from the step, there is the sense of sharing. Mystery and wonder are entwined.

A few lines by Philip Larkin come to mind:

The trees are coming into leaf 
Like something almost being said...
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved