Seeing Things That Are Not There

I have begun to see the spring.
Not that there are signs. Snow still covers
the quarry. The flower beds are barren.
But I know this part of the season,
when spring works below the ground.
Where things move, shift unseen.
Roots. The tiniest buds.
The water table deep and full and running.

It will not be the same spring as last year.
WInter has killed a few of the lilacs,
my favorite perfume of spring.
But that is what winter does, prepares us
to live with less. Less color. Less green.
Less heat. To remember the value
of what I have. The less. More than many.
To remember the profligate God of spring,
always in waiting. And so it is that I see
a spring I do not feel. Knowing it is there,
Surviving the less peacefully,
an old tree, not ready to die quite yet.

About this poem.
Oddly, a poem about being sick the past few days and missing the work and the people that are part of my best days. About the fact that I see things that others say are not there. Those things generally have to do with beauty. I will stand by what I see, even if others do not.

The photograph was taken last year in the quarry across from my house just as Spring began. I am looking forward to it again.

Tom

PS: I am much better today. Yay Doctors!