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| Icicles in drip-time |
March is that month when the snow piles melt, Canada Geese jabber down by the river, and crocuses appear ... when the land is soggy, dirt roads become ruinous masses of mud, and the maple sugaring finishes up.
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| The last of the snow |
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| Sugaring ... though most tapping is now done with plastic tubing |
Along with the crocuses, tiny snowdrop blossoms announce the coming round of color as I rake the still-yellow-brown lawn and pick up the sticks that winter winds always leave in my yard. Raking is almost as good as meditating as I gather autumn's left-over leaves into a heap to toss over my back hill--the same that slopes down toward a deer run amidst deciduous, hemlock, and white pine. Some mornings, I've looked out to see deer asleep in those woods. Or they'll twitch an ear and look around if they hear my friendly tap on the window.
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| The deer in my woods |
The spring poems I'd love to include here are all too recent to be in the public domain. So I will include two I composed using those refrigerator magnets.
after sleep
I lick white honey from the sky
and tell the wind
to bare sweet whisperings
& flood the moment with one raw spring
& imagine shadows playing music
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| Forced forsythia |
near those only forests
when blue sleep falls cool
over fiddleful arms
shot black music springs
sweetly
about the raw day
chanting dreams away &
telling skin to ache.
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| Ahhhh ... |
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