She brings me Spring

She sings with the robins as she weeds out the Winter-burnt weeds,

her wooly curls rippling in the soft wind of old March as she bows her head,

quiet as the world babbles with life again.

The daffodils resurface,

the peonies defrost,

robins arrive, announcing that Spring has indeed returned by their rosy badges,

bees bumble as they hurry, eager to make life sweeter,

translating the language of bloom into honey.

She waltzes through the yard,

flowers bloom from the imprint of her slippers.

She cradles a branch of a bush and talks to it,

it’s an old girl, and not as spry as it once was,

but in her hand, it turns over a new leaf,

branches now burning with bulbs of pink petals.

I can’t see her.

But, I know she brings me Spring.

Maybe this is how I translate grief,

by making my Grandmother

a season that visits me,

but grief is a season in itself,

and it is as pretty as the flower she gives me.

*

This poem is dedicated to my Grandma Marie, who passed last year on March 20th, the First day of Spring, an apt day for her, because of her love for all living things.

This is my first Spring as the owner of her house, and I can’t help but think of her as her flowers come into bloom. I am sure she helped the tulip bulbs, bees, and birds return, as she knew I loved them too.

Love you, Grandma, thank you.