Last night the lightning
tore up the sky;
now remnants gather
and wind sweeps them by,
face-planting the jonquils
into the mud,
ripping the petals
from yesterday’s bud.
No cheer to be had
from this morning’s dawn;
I don’t think I’ll keep calm
but I will carry on.
Saluting the British slogan which has served so well —
until we don’t WANT to keep calm.
‘Mid hyacinth and violet
unfolds the dainty thyme rosette;
lowering rusty sacroiliac,
I sniffed at it and it sniffed right back.
The pond mirror
in leaden shinery
tells form
absent finery/
long-leggedy beastie
starkly spindly
twiggy as spring
winter-dwindly.
With thanks to the Bump-In-The-Night prayer.
Full disclosure, dear reader: I changed this post. A few hours after I posted it, different words started to poke around in my head. I didn’t ask for them. They just started bullying me.
Myriad the gentle frill
back from death
yet each time
I hold my breath.
March begins, dear reader, with tender shoots of hope.
Indoors, we cheat a little,
thanks to dear friends who send spring
in a basket.
Poor little pansy!
It tried very hard
to bring some springtime
into the yard.
Unabashedly sunny,
its bright shiny face
promised big change
with diminutive grace.
I’d rail at the winter
my dander bestirred,
but I know that the pansies
will have the last word.
Thanks yet again to photographer S.W. Berg.
Spring is imminent
I have the certain feeling:
behold the season’s first
spider on the ceiling.
(Ick.)
The incipient garden,
boundless dream,
anticipation,
happy scheme.
Pot and bag
transcendency:
in gardener’s eye
an Eden-to-be.
More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.
The word of the year is GLUB
the world is a sloshing bathtub
I rant and complain
shake my trowel at the rain
but I can’t stop this merciless drub.
I’m tired of endless grey
I want it to go away
I miss sun and moon
I’m becoming a loon
I want to go out and play.
I’m tired of work half-begun
for want of a sky with a sun
it’s a dastardly plot:
spring comes to naught
and summer attacks like the Hun.
I would find it exceedingly rude
if you told me to adjust attitude
it isn’t my bad
Nature’s the cad
gardeners will grant my bad mood.
May the 4th
be with you, dear reader,
soggy though it may be.
When you know your gorgeousness
because people stop and stare,
you know your very breath
inebriates the air,
you know you’re amethyst laurel
encircling Persephone’s brow,
you can’t pretend to modesty;
you have to take a bow.
Thanks yet again to photographer S.W. Berg.
Among dead leaves
may there be snowdrop,
above dry sticks
a crocus,
purpled with life;
whatever season you ponder,
may new hope
be perennial bloom
overgrowing perennial strife.
Wishing you a lovely Easter Sunday, dear reader, with some sign of spring.
Many thanks to photographer Mary Jo Bassett.
