Dr. Lion and Mr. Lamb

It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot
and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light
and winter in the shade.  Charles Dickens

~

The lion leads,
all bluster and roar
behind bared fangs.

From somewhere
a warm breeze
too playful to be afraid

rubs the tummy
of the wild beast
and before you know it

lion-turned-lamb
gambols over the lea
scattering sun rays.

Even in the shade
we see summer.
Awed by Spring

we emerge,
innocents
with great expectations.

Forecast

White snow stars swirl the sky tonight,
Though singing birds have promised Spring,
Al Roker, for once you were right,
But, who believes the weatherman?

Bare trees, too long in winter’s chill,
Were so quickly coaxed to budding,
Now fickle winds with frigid will,
Foreshadow frost with lethal sting.

Come sun tomorrow, buds will fall,
The singing birds have taken wing,
Their presence promised early thaw,
But, I guess they’re only human.

Getting it Done

February’s last hurrah —
wind rattles through bare limbs.
Birds fluff their feathers
and sing a glad song.

Spring is on its way…
Mother Nature seems to be saying,
Stop labeling me!

There are no compartments
to contain me, not even
on calendar pages
.

In a monologue
without fences
she blows cold breath.
The meadow waits for April,

Bees wait for flowers,
Back streets bask in neon.
Fake mystics practice levitation
without success

and then there’s poets,
pen in hand they whistle
and write the sun.

 

Between Seasons

On a skyline undecided
the glint of a goldfinch
kindles the air with flickers
of  sun.

Flashes of spun gold spark
as our feathered friends
dart from season
to season.

Celebrating the promises
of leaves just beginning to bud,
song birds offer their bursts
of thanks

for the new green
on hill and dale and lawn.
Hints of spring renew belief
in miracles.

Repositioning the Id

The new year
is about to turn a page;
the month for lovers is upon us.

The weatherman is calling
for snow. We salute the ground hog
wishing

he could be
more revisionist
instead of mere reactionary.

Come hail or high water
we wear time on our sleeves.
The heartbeat of extravagance;

a new day
laced with celebration
of great expectations.

Caught in the grasp of winter
and hoping for spring,
we stand at the door

waiting to embrace February.