Eastertide on the Ridge

Eastertide on the Ridge

The passion of spring awakes
with the blooming of the serviceberry,
first blooms for the early spring graves.
The rocky paths are soon strewn,
not with palm fronds,
but the blown blossoms of redbuds,
a confetti of papery pinks and faded roses.
Earth’s resurrection promise
is finally in full view
as the dogwoods bring forth their flowers,
decorating the hillsides
in Christ’s wounds.

He is Risen
He is Risen, Indeed!
Happy Easter!

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bar ditches

Feb morning sky

Driving along the ridge,
Bright sun in a cold sky,
The bar ditch is filled with the first blush of spring.
Effervescent purple henbit covers the ground,
Weeds of childrens delight,
First bouquets of the season.

When my nieces were babes,
These weeds were their favorite flower until their father
Mowed the yard,
Decimating their wild flower garden and bringing bereft tears.

Did my grandfather tell me the tale of why we call the ditches
Along the roadside ‘bar ditches’?
The dirt was borrowed ‘bar-red’
To raise the road, flattened for the wagons then model Ts
To travel above the fields.

Memory sometimes obscures the truth.

I remember that my father died on Palm Sunday,
Though it is not the truth.
But that is the memory I preserve in my life’s mythology.

And it is Palm Sunday once again,
Not the date of his leave taking
But still the day I grieve.

And it is the first day of spring,
The day I remember my nieces’ grief
Over the heaped green weeds across their yard.

On this day, memory, unreliable and exact,
Borrows the joy before the grief…

Its the first of spring and all the birds sing
And little children palm frond process
Waving welcome the King into Jerusalem.
Alleluia!
Alleluia!

(revised)

Springs Calendar of Events

March evening storm
I
Blowing hot and cold, angry lovers
rush into each others arms, sparking
into existence their lightning filled
children, giants towering over the land.
Cumulonimbus pillars roiling with winds
and voices of thunder deep
shaking the still naked trees, pounding
aprils warming ground with vernal
tantrums and hailstones, cold and blue.

II
All this begatting and begetting
awash in the fundamental forgetting
of winters just passed
and springs just springing.
April’s hallelujah of re-creation intones
warming air saturated in pheromones.

III
Shedding my skin, casting off
the detritus of all winters,
I scrub the windows of my eyes
to reveal what was once true.
Marked by a blue streak
across my forehead, tattooed
no more by the past,
with merlin, I grow younger
and declare-
I am spring!

(revised)

Perfection

June evening 2 2013

I don’t believe
in perfection-
the tiniest petal
still retains a flaw-
a fissure,
a blemish,
the tracks of sun and rain.
Its heart
longing for completeness,
a closure,
a fullness
of perfect simplicity.

The meadow in late spring
filled with bright white daisies,
lavender sweet peas
pale pink honeysuckle-
a confluence of imperfect
perfection.

The End of May

May morning

The months spilled, rushing down to summer
with the rain,
last falling in the dark morning,
now the clear blue of a perfect afternoon sky

How can it be that things end without thought,
just tossed as carelessly
as petals in the warm breeze?

Will you remember this May?
The May of thunder and consequences
when all that could have been
was carelessly left to wash away
in the cold night rain.

The sun is shining now
and June is already here,
just waiting in the edge of the wood,
tiptoeing across the runoff
of the hard May rains.

sheltered from the storm

fall storm

a poem in two forms

sheltered from the storm, I wait for the clouds to part to hear the call of the river and the running of the creeks restored, responding to the freedom of springs warmth and winters end, I splash and swim in the clear waters of may.

sheltered from the storm, I wait for the clouds to part to feel the rush of the warm wind scenting the spring air with the salty sweet smell of the oceans and the perfume of sweetgrass lingering in the breeze as I run barefooted in the bright green grass of may.

sheltered from the storm, I wait for the clouds to part to taste the first sunlight of golden dawn gesturing with her open arms across the illuminated ridgetop warming the deep green ferny hollows, I dance in the first true day of spring.

***
sheltered from the storm,
I wait for the clouds to part
to hear the call of the river
and the running of the creeks
restored,
responding
to the freedom
of springs warmth and winters end,
I splash
and swim in the clear waters of may.

sheltered from the storm,
I wait for the clouds to part
to feel the rush of the warm wind
scenting the spring air
with the salty sweet smell
of the oceans
and the perfume
of sweetgrass lingering
in the breeze
as I run
barefooted in the bright green grass of may.

sheltered from the storm,
I wait for the clouds to part
to taste the first sunlight
of golden dawn
gesturing with her open arms
across the illuminated ridgetop
warming the deep
green
ferny hollows,
I dance
in the first true day of spring.