Walk with me

beneath the bud-tipped spruce –

we’ll lift our hands to collect

the crows’ bewildered calls,

still hoarse

with the memory of

recent snow.

We’ll bend to sip sweet rain

from crocuses and watch

the ferns’ fronds slow unfurling.

Inhale, with me, the lilacs’ promise.

While Mourning Cloaks –

clad in lush dark velvet –

flit and glide about us,

we’ll decipher their

orphic patterns.

For a moment,

we’ll remember;

for a moment,

we’ll forget.

— C.Birde, 4/17