The Season of Listening

Tags

early spring, Iowa, life in the meadow, Literature, Poetry

I sat upon the porch today,

turning face to the sun,

feeling the warm caress of breezes

flirting with skin, tantalizing, promising.

Looking about, I sigh in sadness.

Browns, greys, mud, empty trees,

accompany the detris of winter’s end.

Things dropped, plowed under, broken and bent,

ugly reminders of weeks of cold,

land dead, beaten.

And I close my eyes, letting the undefinable

blue of perfect sky be my last vision.

And I listen.

And the world opens up in a splendor hidden

from prying eyes.

Sounds emerge suddenly, growing stronger.

Calls of a dozen birds. Building or

rebuilding, begging for love, alerting or,

just. . .singing.

Buzzing sounds? Why yes, any excuse

to waken from the icy torpor of the long night.

Flies gathering strength, basking in sunbeams.

But, yet, no crawling upon the barely thawed soil.

Dogs and cats frisky and joyful.

Let us play and dance before Creator, creating.

Listen to sounds, even the man-made, or

woman made, yes.

Hammering sounds? It is construction season

after all.

Not the shrill sound of drill, but of beak.

And the signal that life is on the move,

Canada geese, honking, demanding,

right of way.

Oh delicious sounds, making my heart

sing.

Making my spirit

soar.

Urging forth hope from a

dulled heart.

Smells? No, not yet. Not yet.

The soil holds tight its rotted perfume.

Soon enough it will rise with the wind,

Earthy.

Touch is passive in this special season.

One is touched, not touching.

The soft almost pregnant air,

ripe with promise,

kissing brow and eyelid.

When it is time to re-enter the world,

Turn quickly, and enter the house.

Do not spoil the beauty by gazing.

All is still so ugly and rejecting.

Rest in the sounds, remembered,

Until, until.

                                                                                                                          Sherry Peyton

(lest you think all is misery in the meadow!)