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
No, there never was a winter
on a spring day.
The morning and I sing
with Leonard Cohen.
(the minor fall, the major lift)
April sun shines
on the just and the unjust
as daffodils brown around the edges
and the tulips fade,
from redbud and dogwood.
(There’s a blaze of light in every word)
Song swells from the greening wood,
the triumphant sound of life renewed-
resurrection of springs promise
and the forgiveness of all winters sins.
(with nothing on my tongue but hallelujahs)
*** The lines in parentheses and the phrase ‘broken hallelujahs’ are taken from Leonard Cohen’s beautiful song, Hallelujah. It is one of many favorite songs from this wonderful songwriter and poet.
Let’s take, for instance,
on one spring night.
Let’s say an April moon,
full and pink in her loveliness,
a moon so perfect it would be hard to forget.
And we will tuck that perfect memory
of that perfectly, pink full moon
and that one perfect spring night
into our knapsack
of perfect moments.
that one moon
(I think it was in April)
when we walked to the star strewn cove
to hear the plaintive songs
of the love sick loons
as they serenaded each other
under a pink April moon,
on a warm spring night.
It was perfect.
And we will remember.
At the insistence of dusk,
stars spark along the ridge top-
torches of ancient suns
lighting the evening paths of fox and hare.
Old oak shadows
stretch, reaching for twilights embrace,
dissolving into the darkling night
as the trees take up a low chant, shaking
winter weariness from their spring fired blood.
Ridgetop to ridgetop,
the bonfires of spring awaken-
bright lamps of bloom ignite in the silver starlight,
illuminating the April wood.