Soul of Springtime

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When else would you be born
but in May . . .  


when the morning whirrs
through your lungs and
says this is new
and not what you


and the joy you
stalked all winter
wants you,

and the wind that just
ran off with your
hair is all your
best dreams,
and crisp against
your skin just
like before.


You are the unleashed
soul of springtime,
unquenchable ember of faith,
every polished strand
of rain:
crystal hum
that dares the soul
to drink,
dares to believe
shackles are only dreams.


Shadows never live too
long in springtime.
Light drinks from every
pool of darkness
in its path,


so you shine


always the strong one,
always the evening star
never sinking with
the drowning day;


where others see silhouettes
of armored trees lined
up for battle,
you see a cut-glass
dying glamorously
in the West:
your private rose,
crushed and fragrant
and blended with those
fantasies that don't
know how to


Where else would you
be born but under the
forgiving stars
of May;

you learned to breathe
when the trees learned
to pray,


and the world gained a
new soul to love,
when love
was the first word
the earth learned,

when it
awakened in the
sequined arms of


by Patricia Joan Jones    

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A birthday gift for my sister, Angela. This poem received the Gala's Touch Award at Galadrial's Respite.

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