it was supposed to rain today,

there are clouds and gray

but no rain.

the sun visits occasionally like

one who cannot make her decision.

i feel her pain.

at odds, at loose ends,

the calendar says spring

yet my doldrums remain.

Violets are blooming in the yard, and the cheerful blooms reminded me that it’s the season for morels. Country wisdom says morel mushrooms grow under old apple trees where violets grow. They like damp places when the soil warms up in the spring after a rain.

Don’t listen to me, because I’ve found exactly five morels in my life. And when I sliced one of those five, there was a worm living inside one of its many ridges. That dampened my enthusiasm somewhat.

But that was a long time ago, and there are lots of old apple trees in the woods nearby. Surely even a few morels would perk up a spring supper. So I gathered scissors, a knife, a paper bag, and I went spring walking.

I didn’t see any morels, but I did see a brown thrasher making a racket in the old berry canes.

I didn’t spot any morels, but I did spot a small native bee gathering pollen from a dandelion.

I didn’t find any morels, but I did find an acre of chives — thick, green, and onion-y.

I looked for morels and found none. Instead I found wild cherry blossoms, an ephemeral little stream bubbling yesterday’s rain water down the hill, the sweet song of spring sparrows, and a field of chives, ripe for the taking.

Isn’t that the way of it? If we keep our eyes wide open, we find that the unexpected gift is better than what we were seeking.

I came home with, not morels, but a fistful of chives and a peaceful soul.