Category: Seasons

Cruelty of Spring

(Photo by Nicole Hester/The Tennessean via AP) courtesy of Journalrecord.com

 

April,

spring,

green,

a time of renewal,

life begins, grows,

days warm,

April, the month of poetry,

inspiration to be found

watching nature as she yawns,

stretches, rubs the winter’s sleep

from eyes closed against the cold—



Then why am I cold still

this April morning

as i sit

and sip

coffee

this fine sun warmed

April morning—



It is—

The three children of Covenant school,

The nineteen children of Robb Elementary,

The children,

The children—

All the children who knew terror

in the final moments of life.

All the children who live

now knowing the horror

of seeing classmates, bloodied, dead and dying

on the floor of a classroom.



This warm sun heralds spring’s return,

life’s renewal, the earth’s promise,

yet I can find no warmth.

Winter’s Will

image courtesy of ALEX VASILYEV on wired.com

There is no understanding

how winter comes

for it comes in too many ways

at too many times

often when it shouldn’t

starting at the edges

creeping to the core

snatching away all the covers

driving out the flames

or

slowly, softly

almost tenderly

like a gentle, timid lover

will winter drift into days

as autumn delicately falls

little dip by little dip into winter’s icy arms

then a frozen world is made.

At times winter rides

with sword drawn

into spring

after life has begun

to wreck havoc on all things

green and growing,

make still all hearts feeling the flow of life begin,

at those times, winter rides

until sweated out

in the course of time.

Yet winter may freeze us solid

in the midsts of summer’s heatwaves

as we stand over gaping mouths of graves.

While some breathing in the hope of spring

as others live in winter’s black ice

suffering the bite of hunger and need

winter’s winter grows larger still

beyond Arctic, beyond talk of tundra,

or talk of some kind of permafrost—

but something too many know.

we will not end in fire

nor will we end in ice

in the end,

it will be the lukewarm breeze

of indifference,

the one to do us in.

 

 

An Autumnal Baptism

Image is my own

Caught in the evening downpour,
I am washed clean of summer.
Summer’s red rock, red dirt dreams
Sluiced from me with this autumnal drenching.

Morning greets me with a cool hand
Of sunshine upon my brow.
Autumn whispers of a harvest
Under skies of bluest topaz.

A clear, clean, honest reaping
In days yet to be had.