Spring

Spring: rain. Then sun. Yesterday it was rain and then sun. The day before; rain. Ah, the weather. At the hour late in afternoon I go outside, tethered, of course, but out nonetheless. I am chained, so to speak, to watching the sparrows flutter about the bird feeder.

This morning I am reminded of Spring, a poem by Mary Oliver,from her book West Wind:

This morning
two birds
fell down the side of the maple tree

like a tuft of fire
a wheel of fire
a love knot

out of control as they plunged through the aire
pressed against each other
and I thought

how I meant to live a quiet life
how I meant to live a life of mildness and meditation
tapping the careful words against each other

and I thought--
as though I were suddenly spinning, like a bar of silver
as though I had shaken my arms and lo! they were wings--

of the Buddha
when he rose from his green garden
when he rose in his powerful ivory body

when he turned to the long dusty road without end
when he covered his hair with ribbons and the petals of flowers
when he opened his hands to the world.