The Most Dangerous Time

The most dangerous time for me is not the winter-
Did you know, Mother? Did you ever suspect?
When the snow is alive and will with sunlight shimmer,
I remain in the world I have learned how to expect.

The most dangerous time for me is not the summer-
Did you think that, Mother? Mother, did you know?
When the bee plays the flowers, and heat is the drummer,
There are no paths to a country waiting far below.

The most dangerous time for me is not the fall-
Did you know, Mother? Mother, did you ever think?
I might hear the faint echoes of a wild sweet call,
But it will be muted by the dying world's sink.

The most dangerous time for me is the springtime-
I think you knew, Mother, though you never said.
Then I can hear the fairies' ringing crystal rhyme,
And then I am most likely to stray from my bed.

Breathing in the stillness of a world reawakening-
For that is what it is, Mother, what it has always been-
I can hear the sound when the elves a-laughing sing,
And in the morning waken, and hear it once again.

The spring nights are warm, full of the sun's return-
That is the most dangerous time, Mother, and you knew!-
For the light is deep and green, cool, does not burn,
Either with the summer's heat or the winter's blue.

I can hear the birds, and when silent they are singing-
Singing, Mother, singing, as you would never understand!
Their song runs in my blood and veins, clinging and reclinging,
Setting a mark upon my heart as one would set a hand.

Sometimes when I sit with my eyes shut and face the west-
That direction you do not like, Mother who loves the dawn-
I can hear the firesong of a music I know best,
The music of my own heart when the light is almost gone.

Springtime is dangerous, for it knows naught of grief-
That is something, Mother, that you never thought to tell-
And even when the night falls, stars unfold a silver leaf.
The whole world is alive, quivering with life like a bell.

Oh, where the spring grass and the wildflowers run over-
You will not look at them, Mother; you turn your eyes away-
There is a wild humming of the first bees among the clover,
Not yet the sedate song it will be in summer's sway.

Every growing breath has the scent and taste of green-
In the middle of the city, Mother, where you thought me safe!
Everything I see takes on a steady glow, a sheen
Of silver and of emerald that threatens to open up the gate.

For springtime is a gate, the other seasons only a path.
-You never told me that either, Mother who has known!-
Springtime begins rebirth, the time when fairies laugh,
And come dancing closer to claim like hearts for their own.

Wild, wild in the song of birds, the nightingale in starlight-
You do not like to hear, Mother; you do not like to listen-
I close my eyes and feel my heart take thunder-flight,
Going somewhere where moonbeams do not merely shine, but glisten.

It is not the south-flying geese of autumn who call to me-
What do you think of that, Mother who never said a word?-
Or the feeling of summer in waxy days of leaf-duty,
Or even the cold winter when there sings not a bird.

It is the spring, the sense of beginnings and of new life-
Couldn't you have told me, Mother, just let me know?-
The sense when the world is mad and joyous without strife.
I have never left yet, but some springtime I will go.