by Kate Sorbara
Outside my window a maple tree breaks into leaf
and this morning at dawn the Spiraea is polka dotted with tiny buds.
Soon, maybe tomorrow, it will be a wedding of white blooms.
And the Magnolia, she is poster girl for impermanence.
Already thick cream petals litter the ground.
I am trying to gird myself to turn the compost, ply from it layers of last year’s leftovers
returned to black earth. Monday I planted seeds.
Dad, gone for twelve years, always comes back for spring seeding –
the way his big boot tamped down the soil just enough, the way he loved earth.
My faith comes from years of watching food crop up from those dusty motes
and the hard knowledge that nothing can be enticed, entreated or threatened
into staying.
So when you plant a seed it continues on its road.
Blue speckled eggs unfold their origami wings and take to the sky.
No exceptions,
all of us are on our way.
— from Juniper Volume 1, Issue 1