Spring Strains

The first prize for winter's closure

goes to the little chickadee.

Fleeting from tree to branch,

she marks spring’s beginning,

notes the changes of the last season

in her favorite haunts.

There is a hopeful bareness

on the maple tree -

with its numerous bustling buds,

and wet winter trunk,

it will soon swing into a lush greenery

that dazzles the eyes.

Beyond the yard,

the soft and bright sun tickles

the mish-mash earth,

as worms find their way through

a slush of melting snow.

A young boy plies

the waters of the Winooksi

with his fly rod,

anxious to bag

his first spring catch.

A young girl gallops

on a tame black stallion,

round and round

in a sloshy paddock.

Two golfers take

to the sprawling course

after a long in-door winter,

swinging their drivers

about them as they go.

A gardener takes off the hay

from the asparagus:

the harsh February frost is gone -

the fleshy stalk sprouts

through the thawing frost,

and lunges towards air and sun

like a bamboo shoot.

A neighbor halts

through her feverish patch,

bends over and notes

that the seed potatoes

from last year’s harvest

have begun to shoot.

(May, Vemont, 2006)

Duskfall on Coit's Pond

at eight to nine he is alone,

on the part-gravel part-tarred road,

no car ahead, none behind.

from the farm house to home,

it’s about thirty minutes.

make it an hour, he wishes he could,

for there’s much to see

and breathe in

before he sees the bills.

there’s the stirring breeze of dusk,

the death of all the churning

or cutting engines of day:

of chain saws and lawn mowers,

tractors and boat engines,

halley bikes and roaring cars.

the sunlight that penetrates

the clouds and leaves their downsides

with celestial streaks;

that penetrates the canopies,

and taints the leaves of spring

with golden hues;

three canada geese home

at their usual hour,

their hollow calls ebb and circle

above the lake;

the evening birds defend their territory,

each to its perch, with beak assaulting the air

in an endless song;

for him it’s the song

of the tires that turn on the gravel road

that grate the memory;

the hum of the engine,

or the nostalgic strains of jazz

from the car radio

that stirs his mind into a trance-like travel;

the long-forgotten scenes

he would gladly revisit,

the silhouettes of time’s songs,

now but echoes of spaces

once lived.

Vermont, May 2006.

Visitations

On a crisp spring morning
just when you thought the petunias
in the garden looked wonderful
under the dazzling sunlight,
out of the corner,

comes a winged visitor,
whose beauty surpasses
spring’s dainty petals.

She fleets with awkward grace

in untraced highways among the flowers,

lured by momentary dreams

you can only imagine,

now one, then two,

and without warning,

across the dazzling meadows,

twenty-something dainty wings.

The blooming garden rings

out its color bells to them;

tickles their senses of wonderment,

as they fleet like peregrines,

halting here, there,

flapping their wings in haloed beats,

a little sip,

a little smack,

there’s no daintier judge

of the wealth spring brings.

The enchanted meadow calls

and keeps them busy:

the variegated flowers,

the soft and stilling breeze,

and the nectary juice:

if you're looking for wine tasters,

there are none with palates

more tuned.

On a bright rainbow morning,

just when the earth unfolds

nature's shop before your eyes,

here comes august visitors

with neither word or sound,

calling your senses

to a delicate earth.

If you'd taste the best of spring,

you'd not travel

where brochures lead,

but look at the buds in the garden

or the wild flowers along the brook or lake,

or on the hillside out of town.