Spring has arrived, however begrudgingly,
and the young woman pushes
the older woman’s wheelchair
along the paths of the great park.
Neither speaks, but each knows
this could be the last time they do this.
That shared knowledge paints
each flower in a more vibrant hue,
each fallen petal is quickly
but individually mourned for,
its beauty draining back into the soil.
The older woman struggles hard
to fully capture each view for she
knows that it is possible
that it will have to last her an eternity.


The gray, velvet curtain of clouds
parted ever so briefly last night
revealing a moon, growing
more full of herself,
as she peered out.
I was there to see her,
the form of smile
shared between us
despite the chill
of the too winter-like spring.
This morning the sad
drooping daffodils said
they saw her too, captured
her luminescence, and
reaching up, opened
to free her beauty
into a gray, rainy day.


The music hides, just out of sight,
beyond the edge of hearing.
We assume it must be something by Mozart
or at least Bach, a tocatta and fugue,
swallowed by the trees, the cardinal singing
faintly, mirroring the tune,
but there is only the wind
meandering throught the pines
which have cast off the weight
of winter and patiently await
the fullness of spring, swaying
and singing a song to the night.