With reckless abandon, Spring sweeps in
drifting acid green pollen in her wake.
She scorns the late winters chill
riding bareback and bare footed
into the robin egged morning.
What joie de vivre!
What carpe diem!
What sweet mysteries of bloom and bud
are whispered from her tulip petaled mouth!
She dazzles the bees, drunk
with their golden wares
all knapsacked to spill before their queen.
There is something to be said
for gardens neat and tidy,
pruned rows of charming box,
lilies, straight and proper,
tiers of trimmed trees,
all standing at attention-
a symmetry of geometry.
But, for me, I’ll take a garden rampant with green-
ferns astilbe mums roses lilies dianthus hollyhocks coreopsis violets
with a few bindweed and clover and poison ivy too-
moneywort overtaking the gravel path,
cheek by jowl to the lemon thyme,
columbine gone to seed,
and foxglove hiding behind the iris blades,
hostas shading the damn rabbits,
birds alight everywhere,
filling the air with color and song.
This is my garden, my delight,
my beautiful chaotic Eden.
An east wind is blowing across the cove tonight-
the cool air perfumed with the scent of honeysuckle
and that lake water faintly fishy smell.
The half moon, hazy and pale, her light obscure
by the east wind and cedar boughs-
the night is filled with the sound
of the moon and the east wind.
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.
He is the 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.
*** A boomerang poem-a form created by Hannah Gosselin
whose instructions can be found on Hannah’s site, Metaphors and Smiles,
Copyright © Hannah Gosselin and Metaphors and Smiles, 2011-14
rain clings to the fragrant cedar boughs
sparkle with lightning
percussion of rain
on the metal roof
Spring’s syncopated beat
deep pewter skies
dissolve into tarnished silver
rain on the water
clouds sit on my windowsill
waiting for me
to gossip about the rain
A beautiful afternoon is always more beautiful in an April garden. The columbines are putting on a colorful display in such wonderful combinations. A blue is blooming, lots of mauve and lavender, a few frilly white blooms and many double blossoms again this year. Our favorite is a small salmon and yellow bloom on a tall slender plant- a wild columbine from seeds we harvested on a walk a few years ago.
My large hosta, for some reason, (probably chipmunks!) has not returned. I dug where the roots should be and no sign at all. That may be one purchase I will make this year – a few hostas to fill in the center of the garden.
Our baby dogwoods are growing with abandon – and we had 18 blooms across the three largest trees this year! Yea! We will move a few of the trees out into the yard this fall. And the two redbuds will be moved to flank the western edge of the garden.
Big fat bumblebees were very busy working across the garden and making their acquaintance with each bloom.
This weekend, we will head to the garden center for lots of flowers and plants to fill the pots for the patio. Then all that is left to do is enjoy the beauty. And water and fertilize and deadhead and weed and weed and weed.
Green is the color of April-
pale green of tender shoots,
deeper shade across the heart shaped leaves,
sprinkled with petals of all flowers
on the path of the dancing honey bee.
the little dog and I watch
the waxing crescent descend
by the light of the evening star
in its beauty
coming to light
the descension of the pale crescent moon
sudden emanation of radiance
Venus in the western sky
dusk wandered off into the spring woods,
hiding in sooty shadows of pale sycamore trees,
waiting for twilight to find him
and night to fall.
winter’s chrysalis has broken
spring stretches her bright colored wings
to warm in the April sun
On a spring day,
there never was a winter.
A spring day lives fully now and not in the least bit
a worrier or a clock watcher.
No, a spring day wakes
fully realized, its concept concrete and never wavering-
except in the warm southern breeze
that lightly bends the awakening plants,
giving their infant limbs and shoots
greening strength and resiliency
to climb to the sunny peak
of a glorious summers day.
A spring day lives its life
to the fulsome hour-
never squandering a moment in planning
or making a list of things to do.
No, a spring day knows that whatever it is doing
right this minute,
is the most important thing in the world
to honey bees
and the moon faced calves that saunter and sway
to a lilting spring chorus