forsythia (and a treatise on spring)

forsythia (and a treatise on spring)

Photo by LExie Blessing on Pexels.com

forsythia,
my dear, my consort
cast out upon the land
a golden plume
a golden mane
the stirring locks of ostara herself
harbinger of spring
message received
for you are truly born of the stars
from your roots rise sunrise up upon this earth-
rejoice!
spring’s sweet songs do awaken.

for spring is a procession of progression
cherry blossoms bathe the path in white to lavender and all manners up to purple, urban planning has them lining the streets in rows like a royal parade celebrating victory over the great winter – for at least a time, and short lived they will fall like confetti littering the street on the day after, the daffodils, holding golden cups sky-upward ready to brim with the coming rains, those same rains will flatten them as they nourish the rest of the surely coming green flourish, the ramps, onion cousins, or maybe garlic uncles, no, more like tiny onions, their chive clump headdress pokes through looking like unruly fits of grass, spring onions – yes, they are known to check in with such a name in certain establishments, the arcs of forsythia, golden arches with no drive thru, inspired in such golden rod as to make midas blush, the mornings are filling with song and sun, Ostara winks as her womb births the dawn of hope, and so I do, spring is hope, hope is spring, and then the worn hot complacency of summer sets in, burns out all the green, and then the world must sleep once more to regain, to regenerate, to be born once again – better to enjoy this now, the colors, the procession, the daily progress of life bursting to be seen, yes, take in the scene.

upon Spring (and I mean listening to Vivaldi)…

upon Spring (and I mean listening to Vivaldi)…

white chrysanthemum flower on white surface
Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels.com

joy! with joy!
the uplifting
the song of spring
played up on Vivaldi’s strings
the germination of possibility
a rebirthing machine
the seed shall touch
lead forth to harvest
then of joyous host
this is the entrance, the start
the promise of life
from a new born star

notes… I went back into my notes from last year and found this little thing, spring was certainly different last year, and I suppose this reflects that, I must admit it brings back the memory of the glory of spring, the feelings, they were so muted this year, they are slowly creeping back, with a mask of course, kind of dipping a toe in the pool before moving forward… it is easy to forget how in a short time all this will be behind us, it will.

spring, in this strange time…

spring, in this strange time…

pink petaled flowers closeup photo
Photo by Brett Sayles on Pexels.com

the gallery of the cherry blossoms
hung among this, the haunted spring
for if march showers bring promise
we can not await their offering
in the quiet of april
showers quarrel more
prayers wait
for the arrival of the summer sun

notes… haiku feel (for me), sort of, one of those as I say ‘wrote itself’, sometimes I feel like the words come from somewhere else, I could take all the credit, but when I think about it the universe has collaborated to create me at this instant (and you, incidentally)… so, a lot had to happen for this little post of words, and it actually did…

thoughts from the porch… (a northern thing)

thoughts from the porch… (a northern thing)

heli
maple tree to ground control…
one of the surer signs of spring, in these parts, as endemic as the tides of fireflies on a summer’s night, is the buds of certain maples, that magically (or quite naturally) turn into winged machines of flight, the helicopters… only if Leonardo could have seen you in action, I imagine his inspiration would be confirmation, only nature in all revelation could make such an amazing creation, spinning perfectly in the winds, seed pods, more like wings, but in our local tongue and lore, all I can recall is that they always were… helicopters… you could swim in a storm of them if you tapped a branch just right, spinning around with them until the ground halts the dance, a whirling dervish of birth, when done you could simply scoop up a handful and rejoice them into the air, and all again little spinning tops are dropping all around, maybe this was a first lesson in gravity and design, and yes, the brilliant crafty nature of life itself, but there was none of that awareness when I was a child watching them rain down like conjuration, just the open wonder, every spring, the helicopters would arrive, a play thing provided by the earth and land to a child’s delighted eyes, a miracle of design heralded by millions of dizzied wings whizzing by, and they are still not just some common explained plain seed pod, from time to
time, I will pick one up, toss, and watch them fly, taking me back and reminding me of days gone by…
the silent spring.

the silent spring.

don’t tell the trees
nor whisper to the buds of leaves
the cherry blossoms peeking
the willow’s pillows breaking
spring is arriving in due time
paying no mind
to the tightening grip of a nation
a world, a contagion
a fastly tightening noose
strangles activity to a halt
sleeping somber in the unsleeping city
the days feel like months
but not a word to the birds
singing now in the morn
nature glides along
as she always will

Thoughts from the porch…

Thoughts from the porch…

so it continues (an ongoing series)…

shallow focus yellow daisies
Photo by Photokip on Pexels.com

that first dandelion has appeared in my yard, sure enough to be followed by more, is this that produces the roar of the coming season with that golden mane? the transition of land, the prey shall inherit the earth from the predator, I quite see all the harbinger’s of spring in their many forms, the golden locks of golden rods, the marked pinks and purples of cherry blossoms, daffodils ranging on ‘scaped frontiers, even as I count these happenings the shift seems an instant, is the world a touch greener every minute, each moment, or are my eyes just adjusting.
I watched a cardinal below my window, in the bush, hurriedly and meticulously crafting a nest, flitting off like a bolt to gather more building materials, placing them with expert instinct feet and beak, then sitting upon them, shaking her tail furiously about to settle the lot down, shaking her whole body with decided fury, and settling down to check the foundation, over and over and over again, I watched the process, careful not to disclose my perch, or my intrusion into family work, and on I watch, wondering, wishing, wishing I had such singular devotion in my own daily pursuits.


Part of this post is from a poem I never finished, but this post and that poem have been rattling about my mind as of late these days, here is the unfinished work:

the harbingers of spring
o’ soon upon the gate
announcing the guests arrivals
golden locks of golden rods
rows on rows of cherry blooms
sunlit hours stretch ’til moon
the flowers of narcicus
peak the boughs

I kind of like sharing the truth, or unfinished work, I am not some robot or perfectionist anymore, I want to let people in to see the inner workings, I do not have much free time so I write when I can and spur of the moment most of the time, it prevents me from posting everything I want but also holds me to the reality of what I got…  any and all eyes on this post, thanks, that’s all for tonight folks.