Saturday, April 6, 2013

Mourning Dove Comments on the Changing Light (from the journal)

Blue is what the
brown winter
dreams of.  3-2-13

Vibrating left and right,
the cold winter light.  3-4-13

Daffodil’s yellow winter dreams
are climbing up the cold winter air
one green leaf at a time.  3-4-13

Pressing up the earthen umbrella,
green fingers its way through.  3-6-13

Tree-hugging snow rounds
the tall woods one trunk
at a time.  3-6-13

Catching the wind,
catching the light,
this tiny shrub’s
new green buds
lean over thin snow.  3-7-13

One, just one,
one poem to go with March’s
soft breath, bright light, dancing wind.  3-9-13

The diagonal sweep of trees.
The sun drew it up one
cell at a time.  3-13-13

Light pours sideways over the paper,
skips over yesterday’s thoughts 
lightly embossed in gray.  3-14-13

Our golden sunrise
keeps rising,
color coming down.  3-14-13

Mourning dove
comments on the changing light,
the new colors.  3-16-13

Holding winter’s snow
all the little green
leaves.  3-18-13

The particulars of troubles
lay beneath it—
the white oneness of snow.  3-18-13

Everywhere the earth
is peopling out with swollen,
rounded buds.  3-20-13

So bright the winter sun—
maple trunk provides
a finger of shaded relief
stretching from the hill
to my face.  3-20-13

From both sides of the road
the flowered maples defy
the lingering winter.  3-23-13

In the sun—the beautiful city,
the many-colored city
rising like a crystal
over the blue harbor.  3-23-13

It’s a long wait for warmth.
Daffodils wait too,
their chins down.  3-23-13

The snow has stopped,
but it drops down now,
from the trees, down in fistfuls.  3-25-13

Breaking off from the weighted holly—
clumps of the unexpected snow.  3-25-13

The white roof
is sprinkled with squirrel’s footprints
turned to shiny ice in the slanting snow.  3-25-13

Green and rust
honeysuckle leaves ignore the cold,
unfold in their own time,
under the blue sky.  3-26-13

An earlier morning.
The trees move like yesterday
in the warming wind.  3-27-13

Waiting for warmth.
The small birds are not waiting.
They speak quietly as they hurry.  3-30-13

The Road Home

A long linear desert.
Here and there a flower of words,
floating up on the updraft.  3-30-13

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