You wonder where you were when it started to bloom,
started its spring time dance in pink puff and blush.
You want to say how much you appreciate it
without sounding like a cornball.

But loving spring can be such a cornball thing:
how you pointed at an early daffodil and told your eight year old,
"the sun is beginning to rise."

And it has risen again and again, the front yard and garden
blazing.

You remember you heard piano last week, and now you know why it blooms
and you do, too.

somewhere there is a book writing us all

some of us might be speed-readers,
but it doesn't do us any good

there is a man who is learning his alphabet
he mouths the letters, tastes each one
     like summer strawberries grown in his own garden
rolls them over his tongue, discovers a color
masters each before creating the world

some of us find that life is black and white
volumes full of dry descriptions

uncover the mystery of words
taste the bitterness
savor their ecstatic flavors

     oh, if only this poem would say 
     what i mean

 Zohar