Transfigured

Days draw near
when the meadow’s laced with buttercups
and daisies nod their pretty heads
in rhythm with the wind.

May we never weary
in our delight of seasons: the changing skies;
the golden rays. O! blessèd
is The Painter’s hand

that makes the flowers bloom
and blessèd are Spring’s promises
that bear the hopes and birth the faith
of ordinary man.

Fake Snow

A pale sun on a thin frost,
Winter was weak willed this year.
More than cynical, this season
that has seen it all and descended
into entropy.

As if bored with the whole deal
and sick of its own children,
Winter shunned January,
turned its back on February,
and waits now to pounce

on March, to pinch crocus
and daffodil at the first hint
of bud.  Disgruntled with doing
the expected, breezes blew warm
when there should have been wind.

It’s all a precursor of more gray,
I have no doubt. Even so, April
will turn its face toward May
and flowers will bloom.
There is no denying Spring.

A Sunny Sunday in February

January passed
with a noted absence
of snow, an inch or two,
no more.

In lieu of ermine
and lace, we were gifted
with gray.  At least you don’t
have to shovel rain.

It’s all okay;
rain or snow,
day to day we know
that we are blessed.

Then, lo and behold!
February 2nd and the sun
shone with purpose
and intent.

The air was alive
with the sound of bird song
and the gurgle of the creek
bursting to break through the ice.

There was a new bounce
in our steps, a spring if you will.
Maybe just a preview, but still
we are grateful.

On Pause

It feels like Spring, they say.
I think of all the changes
that portends.

I have learned
to love the wind, its nip,
even its chilling bite.

I think of the crocus
waiting to bloom, of the tulips
dormant in the ground,

The taste of Spring onions
and fresh salad greens
without warnings,

Strawberries
that make my red lips
redder still*

I am not immune
to the thrill of Spring,
to the joy of green,

but then,
from the corner of my eye,
I spot a snowflake

making its solo flight
from heaven, and I’m thinking
I’m loving this moment,

this once-
in-a-lifetime moment
that I’m living in.

 

*Quoted from Barefoot Boy/John Greenleaf Whittier

Foggy Weather

Sitting in a quiet kitchen,
pale lemon on a sunny day,
but on this day
the mountains wear mist.

A shroud of fog and a scent
of cinnamon are my companions.
The rain raineth
and the wind bloweth.

The weather
is just another thing
we can’t change in this year
of posturing and lies.

In the face of bad politics
and puzzling weather,
Will poetry die?
I think not.

I read that poetry
is not the language
we live in; it is
the language of change.

It allows us to dwell
in the truth of humanity,
to break through the rubbish
and the rain.

Poetry turns these glum walls
back to their lemony sheen
and into a haven of cinnamon rolls
and a cup of a robust blend.