signs of the season
bare tree limb tips dipped
in green, white and lavender
sunlight lingering into the evening,
peepers peeping at dusk,
worms slithering from the damp dark,
bees, butterflies, spiders and ants,
buzz, flit and creep, a hint of wet clay,
fading leaves and first blooms in the mist
and this, the first hummingbird sighting
at the nectar jars outside my window
it’s official...spring is finally here
NaPoWriMo2021 - Day 13 Prompt: This one is short and sweet: write a poem in the form of a news article you wish would come out tomorrow.
Tag Archives: spring
head in the clouds
the clouds fell to earth tonight
millions of water droplets swirled
around me as i walked, my flashlight
capturing their frenzied fluttering
white noise against a starless,
moonless sky, so this is how it
feels to have one’s head in the
clouds, dreamlike, catching tiny
water daubs on my skin and
the tips of my hair and eyelashes,
damp, chill, just me and the trees,
the crunch of gravel under my feet
and the peepers, awake from their
winter slumber, singing of spring
after a cleansing rain, hush
but for bird chatter,
soft blush of blooms on the breeze
it was a warm breeze that
fooled me into thinking
it was spring…how I
celebrated her first blush;
wild flowers dancing in
a velvet ocean of green, but
I was overcome with
fever; it was all a lie…
morning’s icy breath lingered
too long and the dazzle died
a song of spring
the green land,
the water, the leaves
sing of spring…
to love’s edge,
dance in the moment
enter the light
A Blackout Poem inspired by the poem below
The Lake in Central Park
BY JAY WRIGHT
It should have a woman’s name,
something to tell us how the green skirt of land
has bound its hips.
When the day lowers its vermilion tapestry over the west ridge,
the water has the sound of leaves shaken in a sack,
and the child’s voice that you have heard below
sings of the sea.
By slow movements of the earth’s crust,
or is it that her hip bones have been shaped
by a fault of engineering?
Some coquetry cycles this blue edge,
a spring ready to come forth to correct
Saturday rises immaculately.
The water’s jade edge plays against corn-colored
picnic baskets, rose and lemon bottles, red balloons,
dancers in purple tights, a roan mare out of its field.
It is not the moment to think of Bahia
and the gray mother with her water explanation.
Not far from here, the city, a mass of swift water
in its own depression, licks its sores.
Still, I would be eased by reasons.
Sand dunes in drifts.
Lava cuts its own bed at a mountain base.
Blindness enters where the light refuses to go.
In Loch Lomond, the water flowers with algae
and a small life has taken the name of a star.
You will hear my star-slow heart
empty itself with a light-swift pitch
where the water thins to a silence.
And the woman who will not be named
screams in the birth of her fading away.
Jay Wright, “The Lake in Central Park” from Transfigurations: Collected Poems (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 2000). Copyright © 2000 by Jay Wright. Reprinted with the permission of the author.
Source: Transfigurations: Collected Poems (Louisiana State University Press, 2000)