When spring comes
and hats bloom on trees
and distant blue-grey bark
summons sinuous breeze
when the fluid air
drips
with shower and chirpsichore
can we pick a hat
and join in the terpsichore?
Thanks yet again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
And happy first day of spring, dear reader!
Emblem of me
wordless, cracked and flat
a lot of weedy concrete
under my writer’s hat.
Sometimes I must bow
to the gods of Bland and Bare
and admit I’m dry and empty
there’s just nothing there.
I’m not the only would-be
to plummet down this linn
but I’m the only one sitting here
in this writer’s skin.
So I guess it’s up to me
to find some fertile ground
some fuel
renewal
to get myself re-wound.
More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
Chivelings!
Herbal babies, first to birth
wiggling roots in warming earth
slenderly poking this way and that
through winter swaddle, last year’s hat.
Newly voiced in green polyphony:
Canticum novum! Here I be!
When my old bones allow
I will still stop and bow
to pick up an acorn.
My obeisance
to mysterious nascence
the hatted tree ready to be born.
Thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
