Spring Diary

Wind up, gusts its many voices,
I heard fox in the night, coyote, now
I hear wind and peepers.

And ground is bursting,
I wander barefooted on spongy new-mown
Grass I should have mowed five days ago,
And in the hovering silence,
Birdsong begins as dusk comes.
We lost a grand old arbor vitae to
Two-years ago the polar kill,
Last summer the drought; the old thing
Just couldn't make it, or
Maybe just the life of tree.
Like mine, just the given life of tree.

Here amidst
Newness as if rare,
Fritillaria and phlox spill over stone beds
And old tree peonies are close to magic
When their yellow blooms,
Foundation stones under
The old barn disheveled now;
Vixen re-arranged them for her kits.

I walk away, heading for the pond,
Wow, I think, here the springing diary,
Swirling words inadequate, so
I snap photos with my iPhone, tho
I can't jettison my words.

In now's suspended quiet,
Four cyclists go down
Our road, sleek into the welcoming end of
Day, they passage as counterpoint
To my interior deep,
Slicing on slim tires, in bright silks,
Helmeted gazes turning slightly, as one
Toward our old place,
Perhaps they smell
The new-mown grasses,
New-mown weeds,
They don't know I watch them flying by
From pond-side reverie.

Sun fades; there is a chill,
Wind's direction's changed,
I wander thru my small pasture,
Back to my kitchen,
Start chopping, thinking about dinner.
We have a new season's evening.
Grateful, I nestle in.