Wonderful things are erupting from vine
crowding up so vigorously they seem to shoulder each other aside.
New arises from old, as well as on and beside old. This little cantilevered pod has persisted, perpendicular, for months. It has survived snow and rain and wind, amazingly tough.
Elsewhere, a skeletal grass blade coils through a grape hyacinth,
furrowed orange blossoms appear on dehiscing bark,
spores and ferns stand side by side,
and four long, rusted pods persist, like ancient boats beached in the crotch of a branch, beside parturient clusters of pink nubbins.
This -- this ground, this moment, this body -- is where all things start. And are and end and then begin again.
Happy Mothers Day.