Ode to Spring
Always late, dragging your feet
While we stare out the window and
Suffer winter’s bitter grip.
You saunter North, wasting days
At this latitude and that,
No time for the ticking clock
Nor summer’s impatience to
Melt her rival’s icy spell
Hibernating the land and
The lives it feeds.
And still, even then, the snow
Escapes below and leaves a
pervasive scent of the dog
Shit strewn across the yard like
Mushy islands in a sea
Of slick, brittle ice eager
For trophies of wrists or
Hips taken in ambush by
Nefarious puddles and
Tricksy footing.
But when you do come, who can
Hold against your vibrant charm,
That urge to smile, or deny
This impulse to dance all day
With the cows, paroled at last
From the barn’s eternity.
Birdsong extends each day and
Nature’s choreography
Rushes towards a climax
Of mosquitoes.
Is a poem ever finished? Leonard Cohen didn’t think so and I agree. I beg the reader’s leave to improve this work as I’m inspired to do so.
Perhaps you’d enjoy another Spring story by Hermione Wilds Writes:
