If I could pick my birth time, it would be spring.
For the promise of buds about to bloom.
If I could choose a play date, it would be spring.
I would chase two bunnies and a squirrel.
Till I could no longer catch my breath.
If I could wed in a season, it would be spring.
For the bouquets of aphrodisiacs that abound.
If I could conceive and carry young any time,
it would be spring.
For my inspiration would be ripening fruits.
If I could birth my babies anytime, I would in spring.
For the aroma of honeysuckle flowers.
The low lullabies of breezes.
If I could rear my children in one season only,
it would be spring.
For romps in the meadow.
To seek four leaf clovers.
Disseminate dandelion parachutes.
Jump puddles from irreverent squalls.
If I could meander into middle age, I’d do it in spring.
For stirring bulbs awaken hope.
Opportunities to weed gardens.
Tend those of others more overgrown than our own.
If I could choose a time to comb my silver hair,
it would be spring.
For the sensory festivities would sharpen poetic wit.
If I could plan my time to say farewell,
it would be spring.
I would assign my soul to a raft of forsythia branches.
Thick with yellow flowers.
Crickets and doves would serenade the bier.
As it floated past pink cherry blossomed trees, magnolias.
Finally, if I could pick a time for you to remember me,
it would be spring.
For the energy of the earth to reinvent itself.
In vibrant colors, smells, and songs.
Lynn Benjamin
April 9, 2004