I acted on gardeners’ faith
when I sowed my babies in spring
autumn light reveals
(huzzah!)
I knew what I was doing.
I confess lobelia blue
died out
(alas, alack!)
but overall I’m happy
to pat myself on the back.
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Tag Archives: spring
Connections: March 21
The procrastination tree
with particular economy
in early spring forlornament
sports old Christmas ornament
unapologetically.
Connections: March 20
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!
Connections: January 26
No headstone this
but promissory note
payment due
in purpleblue
coin of spring
today’s frozen assets
tomorrow’s garden bling.
Two things
First the summons
to prove my worthy age —
carded! — to buy
rubber cement.
Ludicrous is good.
We need respite
from sanity
lest we be
weighted
with a surfeit of sense.
Second, key in ignition,
I stopped,
disbelieving my stowaway:
ladybug! blessed spring billboard!
It stretched
winged itself
and was gone
as though never there.
Bestowed by happenstance
a lighter heart.
The wimp who would be writer
I’ve been immersed
in the worst
kind of writing.
The kind
that mazes mind.
Forced to dredge,
lean over the edge.
No net,
no ledge
but cowardice,
my oft-times savior.
I waiver.
It is too big,
I am too small.
Words are too short,
life is too tall.
Why try?
I cry.
Coward!
taunts the muse.
Yes!
the writer dies
a thousand deaths,
singing revision blues.
Re-, re-, re-
re-write,
re-think,
re-visit,
re-ink,
re-member.
Again,
my pen,
again.
Look to spring,
the muse sings.
If crocus can arise
from dark place
so can you.
It snows,
stupid muse!
No crocus I
anyway.
Just coward
writer,
barely mettled,
words in pieces,
thoughts unsettled.
But
— a stirring underground —
wanting courage,
perhaps stubbornness
will do.
Protest
I searched for poems of spring.
Ponce de Leon seeks fountain of youth.
Alchemy? Holy grail?
Title for Brooklyn Bridge?
Easier.
Pogo says the first sign of spring is winter.
But must winter enter in?
Mortality? Reality?
So heavy the tread of winter,
so light the touch of spring, that
the one inflicts on the other?
I want a verdant, blue poem.
Sunny, light as transparent green bug
en pointe on kitchen window,
barely there,
fragile-winged,
but declaring her being to me.
Transient,
delicate as the glimmering bug,
but as worthy,
spring for its own sake,
sung
whooped
concelebrated.
No trespassing, poets,
with somber sound,
tempering delight with caution.
Leave such pedagogy to pedants.
I want no morals,
no lessons,
only the heady frilly breath of
this newborn air.
