Tag: spring

poetry

the sleeping fox

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the sleeping fox

when the horizon
is too filled with disaster
I train my internal eye
on the image of a sleeping fox

we watched him climb
the hill behind our house
on a day when
most of our world had melted

there in the warm
russet-brown of the pine duff
he circled then curled,
a fiery fluff of warm fur
lit by early spring sunshine

he knew nothing of our worries
and simply slept sound
and I watched in thanks
for the proof of a being
who could still dream
simple safe dreams
limbs loose, mind at ease

poetry

Ursus

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Ursus

in the dark
a stiff snort
and out of the black shadows
comes an even darker lumbering shape
shaggy hungry clawed and climbing

it’s our springtime wake-up call
the mountains are coming alive
(even now in these peak weeks of death)
and with all that motion and growth and melting
come the bears
groggy and ravenous
but still polite enough to let you know
they’re watching

poetry

perspective

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perspective

on this first full green-blue day of panicked spring
I cup a little brown mouse in my palm
put my lips to her round warm ear
and whisper
until every last fear has exited my chest
in a slow stream of warm urgent breath
carrying bits of my heart and mind
into her delicate nervous system

she blinks
twitches her whiskers
pats my thumb with her paw
as if to say
oh sweet one
imagine having a nestful of blind babies
surrounded by silent owls
you never know
when disappointment may come
all you can do
is greet the sun
with whatever semblance of thanks you can muster
any day it deigns to shine

poetry

vernal equinox

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vernal equinox

sun and shadow
trace a straight
up and down line
meaning its time
for buds to burst
chicks to hatch
ice to melt
day and night
to meet in the middle
all accounts to balance
before rushing headlong
toward summer

poetry

the little firs

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the little firs

after the sun
then sleet then hail then rain
snow thinks about moving on
leaving this patch of woods
lighting out for downstream parts

deciding, it transforms
grows supple energetic on the move
flows
buffs and magnifies
each once-mediocre rock
into a semi-precious find

that old stiff snow laughs down the mountain
singing a spring song
and at the margin
of each steep white-walled
cliff of reluctance
peeking out at the very edge of the melt
are the little firs
their small lithe bodies
bent but not broken
shrugging off winter’s frozen weight
straining toward summer
ready to make something green
from nearly nothing again