The Arrival of Spring

gifts of spring

Gray morning, the last dawning
of this long winter,
from across the water, the sound
of clear silvered piping-

Spring progresses slowly
with her troop
of minstrel robins.

She is wreathed in yellow
forsythia,
fresh and tender,
early buds of warming sun.

Her delight,
the laughter of tulips
and the bashfulness of daffodils,

Spring smiles
and blossoms.

In Like a Lion

Golden Trumpets

In Like a Lion

It seems that the rotation of the earth
speeds up and
gravity is loosened just a bit
as the gusts pull
at everything standing.

The creaks and moans
of the buffeted trees
carry across the ridge
with flying leaves
from swaying blackjack oaks.

Whips of forsythia
slice yellow over their heads
while the daffodils
hold onto their bonnets
and small birds hide
in the pollen sugared cedars.

daffodils for wordsworth and me

gifts of spring

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
By William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

singles and doubles

*** this is one of my favorite poems – maybe the first I ever memorized – and the daffodils are happy residents of my garden

The Irony of April

First Daffodil

The Irony of April

Surrounding herself with daffodils and wearing woolen socks
She sits in her sunroom
Watching the snowflakes fall
Wrapped in gossamer and heavy cashmere sweaters
She sings a robins song
Whistling the tune of peepers and mudpuppies
She rocks to the sound of the north wind
As it rattles the frosted windowpane
And shakes the pollen sugared cedars
At her dancing and mud booted feet
Scattered piles of stacked
Seed catalogues and dusty novels
Wrinkled faded forms
With penciled in blanks
Orders for fields of sunflowers
Waiting for the soil to warm
Under the sleet covered ground