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Tag Archives: poem about spring

No Contest

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Which will blossom first,
clutch of daffodils in their brown pitcher
or you?
Together, whispers that voice
outside the windows
Lift your heads and blossom
to This World

Green Is A Color

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now
green is all remember
those bare trees of winter
though I do know
they lived
I cannot
conjure them again
meaning
Spring, at last.

Advice From My Redbud Tree

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Flower first
before you dress
in green and
practical leaves.
Why wait
when this very day
can be spent
covered in pink blossoms
and fat bees,
every single one of them
drunk and busy,
lopsided with joy
just to be near you
at the height of
your beauty?
Flower first.
Flower now.
Extravagance is Everything.

Benediction For My Town

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Tonight my town
sleep nestled in your hills
blanketed by stars.
Dream of the sweetness
that walks through
your streets —
all I love about
this small town:
Friendly dogs, flowering yards,
neighbors who wave
and call out to each other, sidewalk visits.
For background music, the high school
band practices as they march and
Listen–cheers from the ball field where
tonight is t-ball and small,
small children eating hot dogs
and learning the rules of the game
while crowds cheer them on
and then take them out for ice cream.

Cold Snap

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turns us brittle.
This is not the crispness
of the first bite
into an autumn apple
warmed all summer
on its tree.
No, this is the sharpness
of long waiting for warmth
cut off just as
we dug out all our sandals
from the backs of closets
painted our toenails pink
to welcome the sun.
These toes only dream of
warm wool socks today
so brittle
they may snap.
Birds, buds, branches
Join us
and shiver
in the absence of
Spring
which opened us all
like flowers
then fled.

Weather Report For the Middle of May

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Tennis players sip mugs of hot tea
between points while spectators huddle in
parkas and mittens on the sidelines
complaining about the weather when we
should be writing psalms of gratitude
In praise of these lives so sweet
where this unseasonable cold
so tangible and unimportant
is the biggest worry we can conjure.

Morning Drive Time Zen

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Farmers drive muddy tractors
along the highway, hauling
disc harrows and cultivators
to break up the hard dirt
of fields frozen all winter.
In equipment not meant
for paved roads, they drive
slow and rickety.
Their students follow
in a long line of cars,
drivers late for work, learning
to appreciate the sunlight
as it falls across the wooded
hills lit bright green again
past dark fields waiting
for the plow.
All together now, hills,
fields, farmers, commuters,
Practicing patience
or not.

The Novel Bunch

aka: The Happy Bookers

The Sketchbook

MOSTLY MONTREAL, MOST OF THE TIME

Red Wolf Prompts

I came to where you were living, up a stair. There was no one there.--John Ashberry, "The New Higher"

typewriter rodeo

custom poems on vintage typewriters

A Poet in Time

One Poet's Writing Practice

Writing the Day

A Ronka Poetry Practice

Invisible Horse

Living in the moment

leaf and twig

where observation and imagination meet nature in poetry