a poem by
ROSE OLIVER | Nurse + Poet
AFTER the forced hibernation of New England’s artic winter, the temperate Spring sun transforms the forest floor. I walk upon a lush emerald carpet, dotted with Violets and lacey Boston ferns.
Mushrooms tip their caps. Jack preaches in his tiny pulpit. Crocuses’ heads emerge from the dead leaves of winter. Tree tops wave their verdant fingertips.
There is a secret place in these woods known to but a few. Surrounded by tall granite walls is a large pool, a sort of lesser known Stonehenge. “Look closely,” I told the few I chose to introduce to my refuge. Tadpoles swam about in every stage of their life development. An evening visit rewarded us with the strong bass music of their elders.
I love the daffodils, trumpeting Spring’s arrival. Crocuses raise their heads from the dead leaves of winter. Everywhere are tulips, those brilliant bee castles.
But it is the song of Spring I most love—those croakers, who always bring me back to that pool of new life.
Photograph by Mike Wilson