Is It Really Us, Spring?

I’m this garden’s companion, returned.
A doula digging our co-desire
for nurturing.
Still winter-wary-burring,
I champion dandelions,
beings of yellow tuffs,
trumpets of re-awakening.
A sensation was buried
in the ground—
the want of stretch,
anticipated emerald sprout.

Earth is catch and spout.  

Body is stirring, and
mind doesn’t know
what it’s thinking.
Blue skies soak up eyes.
I taste awaiting
strawberry summer,
then remember.
I am in this present trust:
feet in dirt,
soft and fresh,
everlasting gentleness
on breeze of doubt-less sun.