MARIAN E. WRIGHT WRITING CENTER

Wear the worn ones that are well-loved and grass-stained. Care for the worms as the rains have left them unearthed. Be gentle with all but the mud as you reacquaint yourself with a long-awaited rebirth. Remember the guileless child with eyes wonder-wide. Listen to the new birds sing days-old, age-old songs. Turn your face to the sun but don’t stare. It isn’t polite – to Iris or Helios. Bless the heavens, above and below, for the mystery of what’s suspended between and what grows the first green from the yester-grays. Cast lots on the first blooms. Mind the too-soons. Pan’s Syringa, below and among, now within mortal reach. Gather her spoils with mud-bathed, newly-earthen hands. Sing your days-old, age-old refrains. Draw them out. Sustaining refrains are meant for spring. Love the living things.