Spring is a time for gifts, a time
when seeds lift high their tender sprouting leaves
in selfless offering to the wide sky
and say, this is my best, my all;
fed from the strength i stored
all winter long
The wind is laden thick with gifts of song
from birds that other times keep still
but now reveal a hidden purse of notes.
it is not much, they say,
but here. you need this more than i
Between your house and mine you've planted bulbs
and flagstones in the soil.
The stones, perhaps, are gifts for careful feet,
or else for flowers trying hard to grow.
Your home is full of laughter, friends,
and children who bring gifts they wrap
so carefully in ten small fingers.
There's little left to give.
And so I carry two small chairs outside
and hang a feeder for the hummingbirds.
thank you, I hear you say.
this place that you have made -
it is good
This is a companion poem to a time for truth from November.