This is the first spring that I’ve noticed spring.
Incredible, I know, to miss so much.
Why did it take so long? Mom and Dad’s deaths,
a friend’s cancer, a cousin’s accident,
the Twin Towers, the war on innocents
(always the ones to pay)—the End seemed near.
Then, suddenly, a daffodil, a patch
of crocuses, bird fights at the feeder,
and back into the intact Towers flew
stick figures, like a film put in reverse.
Each morning I wake up and run outdoors
to check the stingy inching of the grass.
I holler for my husband to come see.
“You’re going to be the death of me!” he warns.
“I thought a hungry bear was after you.
Calm down. It’s annual. It’s only spring.”
But like a star’s light, beamed eons ago,
spring reached me just this year. I’m taking note
of peepers, pink skies, swatters back in use,
goldfinches, fiddleheads, forget-me-nots—
as if life really works in sad reverse:
when young, my youth got in the way—
my frizzy hair, my breasts not big enough,
my grand career that never seemed to start,
my many lovers who never appeared.
But now, amazing grace, I see, I see!
My life is giving me a second chance
as I take time to savor it at last.
All that I wasted, overlooked, bypassed
springs back whichever way I look, or write.