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
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
Making my spirit
Urging forth hope from a
Smells? No, not yet. Not yet.
The soil holds tight its rotted perfume.
Soon enough it will rise with the wind,
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,
(lest you think all is misery in the meadow!)