God must smile
when He makes
pussy willows

Since she was born
in the spring
I've always told my girl
that daffodils are hers,
that they all celebrate
the day she came
on loan to me

she believes this,
still

and I still
cherish
the wonder
that is her

a wing
and a prayer
and time to spare

three wishes

sometimes you can find
<3
where you least
expect it,

which is why
I'm always
checking

Our Lady of the Salad Bar,
pray for us.
Let not anyone sneeze
on our food,
nor touch our food
with bare hands
full of germs
and who knows what.

Despite the beautiful renewal
of life that spring brings,
amid timid crocus blooms
and new grass sprouting green
where only grey had been
for months, spring also arrives
with sadness.

Twenty-six years ago I lost
my first baby in the springtime.
Four years later, I lost
another baby
who was due to be born
in the spring.

This quilt began with a square
of batik from my friend Beth
that reminded me of a baby's footprint.
It is strewn with embroidered forget-me-nots.

Others have long forgotten
the children I miscarried;
I remember with a whisper.

gone are the pinks and blues
I used to love the most
in their place,
springtime colors,
gifts of rain and rich soil

I can hardly wait
to see violas and forsythia,
to cross another winter
off the list

on a little hill,
I spied this spring's first crocus
timid blooms,
trying to look brave

unique gifts, special
talents, but how can we know
when we find them all?

what I love about
communities of artists
is the way my senses
are renewed,
I see things with new eyes
hear things with open ears
touch with outreached hands
am touched with giving
hearts and hands of others

and then, to passionately
drink up the gifts
we have been blessed with
by the master artist
who created us.