What delicacies, what midnight snacks
are snugly hid away
to be brought out like popcorn
some barren winter day?
What culinary splendor
brined since last July
will extol in mid-December
the art of putting-by?
I recall our cellar of yore
almost as dark and dank
and I think I don’t want to know more
of what’s in their food bank.
More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
Maybe you remember
my Christmas tree mishap
when it toppled over
and flattened carpet nap.
Family ingenuity
perhaps aesthetics-free
brought it back to standing
with pragmaticality.
And now my poor tomato
bowed by wind and rain
lists like my old tree
risking break and sprain.
So whether Yule tradition
or heavy-laden vine
when the question comes from listing
the answer comes from twine.
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.
