It rained this morning, providing a brief respite for those of us battling the live oak trees over who will be allowed to thrive during this, their pollination period. The raft of pollen casings floating up against the sinuous line of the pool sweep bear mute testimony to the overwhelming abilities of the trees to have their way with the air this time of year. For just now, the air has been swept clean, raked through by fingers of rain, and the ground has been rinsed of the yellow green powdery residue that coats our area every Spring for weeks.
The ability to enjoy being outside, even for just a little bit, reminds me of why April is National Poetry Month. In honor of that, and this morning's shower, I share this: Before A Departure in Spring
Once more it is April with the first light sifting
through the young leaves heavy with dew making the colors remember who they are the new pink of the cinnamon tree
the gilded lichens of the bamboo the shadowed bronze of the kamani and the blue day opening
as the sunlight descends through it all like the return of a spirit touching without touch and unable
to believe it is here and here again and awake reaching out in silence into the cool breath
of the garden just risen from darkness and days of rain it is only a moment the birds fly through it calling
to each other and are gone with their few notes and the flash of their flight that had vanished before we ever knew it
we watch without touching any of it and we can tell ourselves only that this is April this is the morning
this never happened before and we both remember it
W. S. Merwin
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