Memorial Day, 1971

It's not what it should be on this day,
the 31st of May seems
to have come too soon this year,
arriving before the sun.
In the rain - the constant rain -
the buds are swollen; they wait
their signal to explode,
containing meanwhile hidden
the colors, the flowers,
of eager spring.
Why can't we perceive
the intensity of the moment,
the quality of the not-quite-yet
but the intent to be?
The purple tissue of iris just visible
beneath green elastic skin.
The waiting
is always difficult; we make
of such times in our minds
a leaping forward towards
what will be or a memorial
to what already was.
Le me take
this prenatal leaf of llfe in my hand
and see nothing of summers past
or the one to come,
but only what is given right now:
this fragile strength affirming
this present, this reality.

em