I should wonder if, aside from love, spring
could boast being the subject matter of the most poems. It seems our bio clock, with no matter if or of our
talent, tugs verses out of us at this time of year, we’d normally, and probably
rightfully so, be embarrassed to display. Damn if the whimsy of this morning
isn’t forcing my corny hand. Ah well here is what I’m thinking about on this
way past lovely Saturday morning.
Aye
the spring blue sky
is knocking at my door
to see if I can come out and
play.
And a little part
just left of my heart,
has a
rope around the sunshine
and
is pulling me outside.
Blossoming pears,
and some paper whites,
and dogwood as well,
Are like a waiting page to write
my garden on.
With I
think
Redbud and wisteria ink.
A dream in front of my bungalow
Is becoming an English country garden
For the boulevard’s display.
While
the bounteous vegetable Muse
is giving me a non-complacent stare from the
back yard.
My kitchen also clamors for asparagus and greens
And cleaning
and preparing primavera peas
For all of them I have the deepest fondness.
And
yet what I truly want
is to make a country drive become a hike
til I find a Red tail
hovering in wait
to plot my escape.
So I can climb upon her back
and soar across the creek.
Well I see by the
radar that Indiana, maybe Michigan and Ohio are having yet more snow, Kentucky thunder storms, sever ones
in Florida, Idaho and northeast California ice. Winter has certainly been a
bugger this year and tenaciously will not leave. I wish you all could share my
weather today, and if not that it joins you real soon wherever you are.
Blessings mes amis
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