Early Spring

A slightly different version of this poem appeared in The Morpo Review in 1995. (I have to admit, this particular view of spring is not the best one to present right now, when you may, depending on your location, have had just about enough of winter.)

Blue sky's an intrusion
when the cloudy dims
and branches softly wave
their welcome to the rain.

Then the sun's a stranger,
and the yellow light
is hard upon the poor old snow
that waits for water cold
to wash it down the drain.

Rain turns all to smoky day;
the grey clouds close my eyes
and turn me
back in memory
to moors unvisited, and that grey rock:
green lichen on the craggy rough.

These tired beginnings
are like sleep:
When seasons change
we want just five more minutes to remain
ourselves
before becoming something new.

July 27, 1995 - January 20, 2009