Wetland Willows
I think I’ve missed the willow catkins--
gray, furry signs of coming spring,
and am disappointed.
Liquid notes of a red-winged blackbird
bubble down to the greening grass.
Overhead a wedge of Canada geese call
as they head for yet another field or pond.
Otters use this channel, fishing and playing,
bobbing and weaving, sliding down the banks.
Ah, but there they are along the waterway,
a silver column on shiny twigs,
surrounded by others already covered with tiny flowers.
A few more days and these too will be frothy yellow.
I stroke one, feeling the softness.
Sometimes I have forgotten,
in the business of the day to day, to look--
and have missed fawn lilies, trilliums, orchids and violets
in the forests and meadows.
It is important to honor each season as it arrives
and to acknowledge its departure,
even if tinged with sorrow.
How else to measure our days?
Sometimes a friend is here and only moments later, it seems, is gone.
And the passage of another year will not bring their return.
The sun is setting
and I must shade my eyes to see to the west.
A tree frog offers a tentative voice
as shadows dim the water’s glare.
A harrier coasts across the pond-studded fields, searching.
And I honor the season.
