Misty blossom froth against the sky
Lording it over siblings
Sprawled across the hillside,
Not a one
More beautiful than the other
My heart leaps and sings
To soaring flute
And drumming delirium.

What about the newly birthed
Sets us so rejoicing
With bated breath we attend
First openings
Crocuses still bedewed,
Tiny kit or colt or cub,
Or babe so tenderly placed
In its mother’s arms.

Our hearts cannot fail to dance
For each new birth bears witness
To Spirit’s promise that
Life has no end, only
An eternal series of beginnings
Expressing itself anew
Again and again
And yet again.

Ethel L. Ingalls
April 2008