I take in the magnitude of the white pine in the yard.
Gratitude washes over me. I release words that tried
to be a poem on May Day Eve—too full of history,
worker's rights, and ritual. I let go of words of
mere love I inserted while rereading on May Day.
And I start over, letting go of all disappointed
productivity. Instead, right here and now, I let go
like pine needles let go of dandelion spores, and let
today sway me. A gentle and glad wind rings these new words
from me, I a bell who comes alive in the breezes.
Singing, I water cedar and hosta babies a friend
helped me to plant yesterday. We worked with concentration,
enjoyed digging holes, placing plants, piling in and patting
down new soil, bringing water to welcome them. Here’s the holy
day I tried to capture, the one I thought had escaped.
It didn’t escape. It waited for me, and curled up in
my lap when I wasn’t looking. Gratitude washes me.
I say to the seedling cedar, "Look how tall you will be
someday! You are in good company." Next there's a surge of
gratitude that we are alive on this holy May day.