spring

tiny trees are poking through the grass that's brown and papery,

like the raffia bows we tied on homemade loaves.

i can’t get over their hopeful numbers,
i can’t get over that i've missed them until now.

i dream that they’re the gift that winter gave,

a peace offering, a fond farewell.

but probably they’re a welcome gift from spring,

a housewarming, a kind hello.

like that nature show on baby turtles, struggling, sifting out to sea,
through the slogging sand and un-relenting waves – most will die.

those that live will always remember their fallen friends,
taking them along in the re-birth of their dying cells.