What Next, March?

A breath like April’s
warmed February days
so I cleaned the closets,
put winter clothes away
and brought out Spring,
light cottons sprigged with buds
that soon would bloom.
Oh, how the gremlins
rubbed their hands with glee;
this morning,
quite unceremoniously
I sneezed,
even before I saw the snow.


A Time to Grow

empty from chasing the wind
we settle like fallen leaves
in dark corners devoid of sun

even then we are born to seasons
the breeze turns warm
the great thaw begins

an icicle morphs drop by drop,
a tear becomes a deluge
a cleansing flood

a sound grows in our ears
a bird’s song, a bee’s buzz
filters through the mist

a butterfly flutters by, an awakening…
we burst from dark cocoons
with fragile wings

It is Spring

To March

Tea and patience
and tales that never bite their tongues.
I hold you in the underlined places,
those interstices of vagrant days.

It is only lately
I’ve begun to think the weather
is intentional, Inscrutable face,
the ides give you away.

I understand you
even better than April, Like you
I have a roar inside me
that hungers to be heard.

In Humble Adoration

Winter’s dismal cold,
when every breath
was an op art sculpture,
was more than a season;
it was a miracle of survival
where even I,
who sometimes struggles
with each step,
walked on water.
Of course it was frozen;
everything was
and along the margin of the bay
where daffodils will bloom in spring,
I slow stepped
in boots with tread so thick
it would make Michelin proud.
Everybody knows it takes a sturdy sole
to stay upright in winter.
Thank you Lord
for an encouraging calendar
and the hint of green
on my lawn.

On the Wings of a Setting Sun

Atop the hill day makes its goodnight cry
in flame-red hues of myth and mystery,
Divine creation with a  breathy  sigh
burnishes earth in golden artistry.

Would I were that speck in majestic flight,
the wing’ed sparrow soaring high above
unfettered by melancholy twilight
nor taunted by the specters born thereof.

To feel the rush of wind beneath such wings,
to coast on currents warm with fading sun,
What makes the faith that lets the caged bird sing?
What wisdom lets a finished day be done?

Last vestiges of sun slip from my gaze
as melancholy turns to words of praise.