10/2/02

Spring

 

“In spring when the shepherd dreams of golden flowers,”

 

       I walk out my door with naked feet to squish my toes in sensuous mud.  I can feel the individual grains of dirt within the liquid smorgasbord of earthy substance. My feet are never clean—20 years or maybe a little less of tactile earth worship have pounded skin to leather and left dirt a constant pigment of my pores. And yet you touch them, and for that I bless you.

 

“In spring when the shepherd dreams of golden flowers,”

 

I am not content with closed-eye shadow vision. The breeze calls my name in a hundred sighing syllables. I greet the prophet flowers, yellow dandelions, heralds of spring, and wear a bloom behind my ear as a symbol of my allegiance. My rosy lips kiss roses’ petal-lips—a kiss of soul-love, spirit-loving ecstasy. I do not dream of golden flowers but rather dance a petal-dance, spin a breezy-dance, frolic a tree-dance, pound my feet in the rhythm of nature’s consummation.

 

“In spring when the shepherd dreams of golden flowers,”

 

       I break from my cocoon, emerge from spiritual hibernation. The death pall of winter melts from my countenance, my world is born anew and so am I.