March turns the year about
and we start again.
The whole world hinges
on the spring.
Beneath my feet, the earth opens soft.
There is lightning and honey
and hope in the air.
There are flowers in my hair.
The bees have built a second hive
in a pine, by the path
that smells already like June.
I dreamt through winter,
holding onto fall,
and I don’t know
what I have to show, except
every love note I ever send
has found me again,
exhaled… sighed…
returned through the wind
I think,
maybe,
I wrote them
all for me.
Words and photo © Jaime Greenberg, 2022
