In sudden crash and rattle,
like Monon through the wall,
the April shower blasted
its icy free-for-all.
With such a din and clatter,
so deafeningly unkind,
the caution: Now, if spring,
can winter be far behind?
Tag Archives: season change
March 14.23: Coping, but barely
In robinspeak: Look at me!
I call from minaret of tree!
Look up! I cannot wait all day
to sing my song and say my say!
Raise your eyes and tilt your head!
You’ve met your feet — look up instead!
The sky is grey and winter lingers;
wrap up tight and mitten your fingers,
or be like me and weather the weathers
by bellowing full your winter feathers.
Rise above! Stretch out your wings!
You humans are such starchy things!
I grant there’s good stuff in the dirt,
but too much looking down can hurt.
Look up and see the endless skies —
your spirit needs the exercise!
What risk to you, oh, you clay-bound,
when both your feet stay on the ground?
Dare to snub the daily strife
and defy the gravity of life!
Yes, dear reader, that’s what the robin said. I heard it myself.
March 12.23: Coping, but barely
Ah, the splendor of spring!
Gift-wrapped in white!
Nature’s rude joke
after sleep-shortened night.
My coffee tight clutched,
my brain unsteady,
I’ll change my clocks
when I’m good and ready.
March 2.23: Coping, but barely
Just before the buds,
the taut air,
belying the race to life.
Only the thicket mist
hints of green,
gaudy in its transience.
More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg,
and to Fort Harrison State Park.
October 16.20: Coping
When all is done
and all is said,
none can imagine
such a red
as autumn conjures
from summer’s green
in abracadabra
of a Merlin unseen.
More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg
and to Fort Benjamin Harrison, Indianapolis, IN.
September 26.20: Coping
In bright foreshadow
does autumn sun
frost the amethyst;
then does the butterfly know
to kiss it goodbye.
With thanks to photographer Mary Jo Bassett.
August 31.20: Coping
The dark glistens mid-day
and raindrops
the size of watermelons
plop
on the plump of August.
Soon September.
August 18.20: Coping
The world is a-gurgle,
the pond a-splash,
the flowers a-slurp,
the sky a-flash,
and thus does summer
wash its face,
preparing for autumn’s
russet embrace.
August 12.20: Coping
Morning came
too quietly,
neither chirp nor trill,
but only cicada’s
serrated drone.
A very timid cricket
tuned his small pipe.
There I stood,
knee-deep in July,
prickly and unsure,
so restless was the quiet.
Now the dark of August nights
and no firefly winks.
The Green Heron blats
like fallow French horn
once or twice a day,
and maple leaves,
scorched,
bleed at their edges.
Do I imagine
the urgency?
Time is out of sorts,
as am I.
Disconnections: November 24.18
The curtain falls
change ever trustable
autumn bows out
in finale combustible.
Oddments 