In April/ the ponds open/ like black blossoms,/ the moon/ swims in every one;/ there’s fire/ everywhere: frogs shouting/ their desire,/ their satisfaction. What/ we know: that time/ chops at us all like an iron/ hoe, that death/ is a state of paralysis. What/ we long for: joy/ before death, nights/ in the swale – everything else/ can wait but not/ this thrust/ from the root/ of the body. What/ we know: we are more/ than blood – we are more/ than our hunger and yet/ we belong/ to the moon and when the ponds/ open, when the burning/ begins the most/ thoughtful among us dreams/ of hurrying down/ into the black petals/ into the fire,/ into the night where time lies shattered/ into the body of another.

Mary Oliver

Ponds open in spring. The more-than-our-blood-and-hunger and root-of-the-body-force of falling apart and coming together happen in spring. Like a perennial dawn. Like a ritual reset. Like a prodigal welcome. No matter how apart we are. Coming together happens. No matter how distant we are. Home remains. No matter how broken we are. We can heal.

We are called to the pond — from wherever we are — in spring. That is the power of spring. Our bodies know we belong to the moon. Our minds know time shattered. Our hearts thirst for fire.

We create our ponds. I like to think we can have more than one. Perhaps as many as we need. I also like to think we can create, build, discover them at any time. Not just in spring. Though spring feels pond perfect. Spring is and invitation to the pond. To blossom.