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SESTINA FOR THE FIRST OF SPRING

BY MABLE BUCHANAN

The First of Spring, and the pale cherry blossoms aren't the only new
arrival, fragile, shying from light shed on bulbs of green
like a golden gift. I felt a shift here on the glistening grass, unclear
whether out in the lilac sunrise or in myself I felt the change-
Nonetheless I am aware I felt it with you standing there, a smile so bright
the blossoms didn't stand a chance.

The blossoms and I both unaccustomed to taking chances,
I watched with the attempted sunrise their flushed cheeks collapse anew,
their purity now pallor. It was too early for the bright
greetings of dawn to coax them out of sanctuaries, from calm green
into the open. March brought them too abrupt a change,
her eagerness alarming. Hesitant, they wait for morning skies to clear.

The First of Spring, you're summer nearing, dawn appearing, heavens clearing,
frail asters unafraid, traces of gold streaks breaking through. You took a chance:
let fierce downpours run their course, then settle into gentle dew. And in exchange
lie lilies rife with butterflies. The morning answers to you, newly
tranquil blossoms peering from beyond the ripe green
refuge. Their grace had seemed forever lost, but on this bright

fresh day in March their elegance is found. Their petals brightening,
guided by the tender touch of breezes, they are eased into the clearing
by that radiant light that lifts and leaves the verdant valleys evergreen
immortal. Petals at peace start to tremble at the chance
of chaste romance with the morning they are near to and the new
sweet, serene sapling they are dear to, innocence and care all interchanging.

The First of Spring, the clouds are fading, but my feelings are unchanged.
This time you came in the thawing of the crystals, in the brightening
of the lifeless barren legacy of February; but your revived eyes renewed
the quivering of the leaves, the heavy air; the call to memory was clear
and I was hesitant to feel it, aware at every moment of the chance
that I would burst into a violent bloom of violet, of rose and frozen marigold and
green.

Now with calming care the fields again are greening.
Again I'm not impassive to the change-
Delicate petals test the air; sensitive to sunrise, they will stake their second chance
though hesitant, and stretch with faith they'll see a brighter
May. You soothed the day of their unfolding with your reassuring clarity,
and waited out the rain as if you knew

that in the wind the blossom wouldn't bloom; but in the bright
warm aftermath of April, gray sky golden, we'll be clear
this is not love, just a fresh season-the First of Spring, we're bright and green and
new.