Tadpoles, and tandem bicycles,
and other things I can’t see
without smiling.
This show of scientific defiance,
this forward tumble of progress,
this must be the gift of spring:
to make things feel lovely again,
until the word begs back its vibrance
from the austere drapes of winter,
which are not lovely but clean,
and hollow, bones chilled
to match the white of fallen snow,
muted colors not allowed
to scream—goodness, isn’t it lovely
to wake from that dream?
I feel I could be the tadpole, growing
legs as the trees grow green,
and a functioning head
and heart and spleen. I feel
I could ride one-half of the bicycle,
becoming a fraction of the speed
that sends us catapulting forward.
By God, the earth spins free, and so do I!
What a time this is, to be alive—
this being our frantic flight,
and the blooming seeds, and the shifting light,
and the lifting breeze. Joy goes by a hundred names,
but as long as there is a space between my hand
and the brakes, I call it a welcome surprise:
The gift of spring.
