This is not a spring poem;
even though dogwoods now blaze
in swathes of white and pink,
the cardinal, once alone, crazy
red against the snow, welcomes
the robin home from the tropics
or some other paradise
of sun and waves that lick
incessantly against the shore,
the grass greens again outside
my now open window,
and the sun is no longer shy,
this is not a spring poem.
Instead, this celebrates
a winterscape--not snow covered
and pristine, the branches glazed
with ice--but dead leaves dried by northern
gales crunching beneath any move,
leaves still clinging to dry branches
rattling, trees creaking above
a landscape barely not dead--
even squirrels do not scramble
for nuts--trees popping
as sap quick freezes, and bits
of ice clinging to otherwise
dry rocks, all sing an unheard
song of late winter. Twice
said: this is not a poem writ
about the spring... or is it?
Timothy C. Truxell
Michael miserable failureMoore