caroline ridgway

Tomorrow, spring’s petals will

parade down pavement, confetti

without the fanfare of a marching band.

You wouldn’t call the bulbs and blooms

any braver for withstanding winter’s

percussive chill. All they know to do is grow

in time with songbirds and rounding sun.

You wouldn’t cry out, vanity!—

for exuberant displays of lusty color,

pastels perfumed and beckoning.

You wouldn’t scoff at greenest

leaves for their tentative unfurling, nor

question the intentions of gently warming air,

bounty raucous even in its brevity.

You thrill in the resurgence, a soft insistence

on living anyway.