the small dog and I out
for a late evening walk, stopped
by the sound of a thousand wings
starlings in their blessed murmuration
whir and whirl in temptations of flight
and chaos, a perfect holy vision
of angels
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amazing starlings murmuration (full HD) -www.keepturningleft.co.uk http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eakKfY5aHmY&feature=share via @youtube
from the cold dark earth, comes the trumpet triumphant
death has been overcome
and life is abundant
rise up and sing
for the earth has once again awakened
and we are all
reborn
weak as tepid tea, the sun shines from a cold blue sky
in the newborn Spring. early morning frost rimed each
tenuous stem, rattling dry desiccated, until vapors
rose like wraiths disappearing aspirating vanished
leaving grasses pale bleached, limp and wasted.
fear hangs on my shoulders, atlas at his task,
holding the earth and all her
devotees, on my weakling shoulders, now bent
and ancient, grieving for the world and
its plagued population, struggling for breath
and light in the weak kneed sun on a early spring
afternoon.
I don’t know
I don’t know what grief is ahead
for us my friend
I don’t know what redemption
for old crimes
will be our lot
we have walked in the sun for so long
that as the shadows lengthen
we stand in amazement
at what we are seeing
crows descend on newly seeded fields
clouds descend
wrapping around my head like a crown
I wear them well
with no regard to fit or fashion
damp curls form
at the nape of my neck
remembering a dark haired lass
now silvered gray
I return the clouds to the wind
pegging them on the nearest birdsong
rushing eastward
on an early afternoon walk
the small dog and I
took off down the water road
to see if we could spy Spring
sun slanted through bare limbs of hickory
and oak
stretching into afternoon shadows, bruised
across the rocky path
and into the dried husk of meadow
we stretched to examine spare rods
of yearling saplings
for a hint of swollen bud or
risen sap of new life
while the small dog wiled his way
through undergrowth gone withered and lank
I scanned the waters edge for
turtles or mud puppies, minnows
or tadpoles
no signs were found, winter still held sway
on this sunny day
until on our own garden path, we stood
in the color of spring skies-
tiny bluets blooming in a field of green
This poem is a bucket.
This poem is a moonbeam.
This poem is my husband.
A container of vague reference and history,
its origins unknown but its utility humbly significant.
Whether wooden or metallic in form, it chooses
to be the holder or keeper of all possibilities,
whether rain or mop water or tender young things safely carried.
This poem is a bucket.
Petals of pale yellow dancing in the spring breeze,
moving with the changing weather and seasons.
Sturdy and perennial, its heart moves with the tides
of earth, rain and sun. It is hardworking and dependable,
though its many faces show its charm and golden light.
This poem is a moonbeam coreopsis.
Bringer of gifts, deeply rooted and bound
to the rich soil of our earth,
a partner in a garden of different minds,
growing in systematic wildness, each portrayed
in the best possible light
or shade depending on its habits.
He is the keeper of spades and implements,
ancient rituals of furrows and seed.
He is the blue eyed boy smiling with his weed filled bouquet.
This poem is my husband.
This poem is a moonbeam coreopsis brought home in a bucket by my husband.
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*** A Boomerang Metaphor poem -a form created by Hannah Gosselin
whose instructions can be found on Hannah’s site, Metaphors and Smiles,
https://wordrustling.wordpress.com/
Copyright © Hannah Gosselin and Metaphors and Smiles, 2011-14
