March winds blew fierce this year, blew me from far groves and fields,  
blew me deep inside a cave of quilts to darkness beneath a silken sleep mask.  Now, warming days beckon green growing things from  
the dead winter soil, from barren graves of roses.  
Intrepid seedlings test the air… violets, buttercups.  
Tiny fists of pink pear buds clasp tightly, the mother tree cautions  
not yet, hang on, your time will come.  
And then it will go.  
The sweet bright days of sun and bees, explosions  
of light and laughter while you bloom, so fresh!  
But they will not last: you seed, you fade,  
grown-up leaves replace you and it’s okay, it’s life  
sad as it is, but somehow beautiful.  
The tree remains. 

Pat Higgins draws inspiration from the natural world, and from her 70 years of adventures around the globe. She has previously been published in Elephant Journal and has had her poetry broadcast on WFUV radio. Her writing spans from essays to poetry to memoirs.  She currently lives on Long Island, where she was born, escaped from at the age of seventeen, and eventually returned to three decades later.