For each one now spring
is not what once spring was
when its season meant not a thing
during the bloom and bud of youth
but the coming of a time for leaving
what we knew but did not well love.

Here now, many years now,
I think back to late winter days
before spring sprung through the gloom
and made me swoon with smells
delicious of wet cedar and beach
wafting through the mists of March
clinging still to memories of my home town.

The innocence of then –
when I spent my days ignorant,
too often alone, scared, angry
waiting for life to begin –
becomes the incense of age
curling slow and sweet into the rafters.

The coming spring will not be
what spring was when I was young.
It will be spring, just spring
curling up again from the ground
in shades of green and flowers
softening in layered strands
of long daylight hours perfumed
in scents of lavender, lilac, and lily
longing but for the sweet scent of sun
and the warm breath of the earth.

Portland, Oregon – March 15, 2018