false spring

 

your hands were warm,
as were your letters
against my cold touch

i did not know spring then -
nor the weight of long winter 

this i now know:
my heart leapt
at the sound of your voice,

that old memories rushed back
like gentle tides returning
to a forgotten shore,

that the air between us
still carried electricity
from long-ago words

who knows what might have been -
how a fragile bud,
a seed of a smile,
a light touch

might have opened slowly
into something larger
under the full glare
of sun, rain, and sky

my mind was timid then,
my resolve even more afraid.
when you are young,
naïve, and unsure of what might grow,
even hope can feel dangerous

so i let it pass -
that brief warmth,
that almost-season.

now i look back
on that time in my life
with fondness -

no regrets,
though a quiet garden
of what-ifs still lingers.

and if our paths cross again,
beyond a night of easy laughter
and borrowed friendship -

you know what?

the older me
is no longer afraid
to take that leap,
to startle the quiet air.

i will wait until then
for our spring to arrive -

not early,
not mistaken,

but true -

with wrinkles,
with louder laughter,
with songs
we are finally brave enough
to sing

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - False Spring.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thank you for the visits and comments.  Have a good day!

False Spring

I listen to western wind's murmurings - 

Birthing songs by iris and daffodils

High-pitched cries by broad winged hawks nurturing- 

There is restlessness in the air, the chills

Of winter are ebbing low & bordering

Small buds & silky tendrils sprouting gills

Shedding dark skin of soil & instinct to cling

And inhale the marvelous light of spring

The sun's crimson fingers brings fresh mirror

Sketching the pale grey sky blue as bluebells

Coloring the leaves young and green, clearer

Than raindrops that shimmers with silver spells

But all that is short-lived as once more, furor

Of winter wind comes back, peeling back shells

Of green & draping its white coat, unasked

It's false spring.   We all huddle back, hands clasped!  

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetry Form:   Ottavo Rima or Sonnetto Rispetto.  We are learning this traditional Italian poetry form.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.

the paradox of the changing clocks

minute hand moves 

forward, but escape wheel

is stuck

-tiny buds wilt in tail of winter's breath-

-leaves shiver-shrink from false

spring's embrace-

grip this season 

of becoming

as the blossoming earth

peels back

-dead skin-

-mourning dress coats-

we thirst for life

(deeply)

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Quadrille hosted by Lisa.  This is a 44 word post with the chosen word, SEASON.  Thanks for the your visit and comments.

the choir of spring

Fay Collins Art

paint me a mirage of purple and lilacs
to bouquet the sky of grey & icy nights-
spring awaits, choir of colors, firebox-

i watch the rain hammer the bare backs
of trees as sun billows behind bland whites-
paint me a mirage of purple and lilacs

my hands are tarred in disquiet sacs
viewing heads of dead roses, a fright-
where's spring, choir of colors, firebox?

my eyes are strained, seeing snow in cracks
of climbing walls & flower pots, knitted tight
is this season a mirage of purple and lilacs?

i count the hours where i'll sit on hammock,
read my books with slow pace and re-write 
spring's arrival with choir of colors, firebox-

the gem in my canvas of cottonwood & hemlock-
my footsteps turn to fancy and air light                                
paint me, in a mirror of purple and lilacs
as spring arrives in choir of colors & firebox!





An edited post for dVerse Poets - Villanelle, Poetry Form, hosted by Sarah Connors.   This is the 4th poetry form for dVerse and the link will be open for 1 month.   Join us with your villanelle.   

Sleeping beauty

Beauty lies deathly pale in her sleep,
Forgotten by apple trees & lovers on the hill
Winter keeps a close guard over her tiny frame,
Her skin so white, with hair of darkest night-  
Her lips so red, bewitched by 
summer's end-

One April day, he walks into the forest
The sun greets him like a reluctant flame  
Melting the veil of secrets, capturing his eyes- 
He comes close and kisses Beauty's lips,   
so cold like ice- 

Beneath his fierce embrace,  
She takes her first breath, coming  
Alive with the softest shade of pink -
The wood trembles, like a tide turning
In mid-stream, her eyes awake, so blue,
the anguish of a storm- 

Then, she heaves again, failing
Like a weary bloom, deadly is the frosty 
Wind that bites on delicate skin, 
Color of an unripened apple,
too early, too soon - 

He could not awaken her -
Not with words nor songs from the robins-   
So he places white tulips & pine cones 
On her chest, and tuck back her long hair.   
Shutting down the coffin, he leaves the forest,
A lonely traveler, perplexed with 
false spring - 


Posted for D'verse Poets Pub and Imaginary Garden for Real Toads - Happy Easter ~
Shared with Poets United Picture credit:   here