Oh, nippéd bud,
of thee I sing,
poor little cringing
misshapen thing!
Frost’s cruel fang
hast bit thy head
and left the blood
a darkened red.
Thy brothers and sisters
in sad disarray
look equally puny,
alack-a-day.
How now, spring?
What mischief this?
whither the photo
for our synthesis?
In how many ways
can Nature say bland?
How many greys
in March’s wasteland?
Thus the creek queried
churning leaden and duller
in sighs winter-wearied
“My kingdom for some color!”
With apologies to Shakespeare.
Yes, dear reader, this IS a color shot. Taken yesterday. Alas.
When the pansies bloom at Lowe’s
though I’m still in winter clothes
I exalt with mittened prost!
because I know it’s spring
almost.
The shade that’s cast by brick and steel
cannot in peace compare
to shade endowed by green —
susurrous emerald air.
It cools the soul and slows the heart
pares our excess ways
says “only this” and makes us stop
to gather up our somedays.
May green be yours, dear reader,
though winter’s not quite gone;
may you see some signs of springtime
and catch a leprechaun.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day, dear reader!
With a shillelagh salute to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives,
Vernon Hill Gallery.
This forlorn and crabby crow
adorned in German springtime snow
in silent cold indignity
looks a lot like cheerless me.
March tornadically announced
last night its roaring lion pounced
winter’s beauty not denied
I prefer the lamb’s springtide.
Thanks to the Dianna Vergin Photo Archives.
