Marching into Spring - poem

~~detail, south flower bed, Couchwood, PL~~ 

 

We are marching. . .  

 

The oom-pah rhythm of a marching

ignites the listeners’ hands and heads and feet

till not a soul is still, and all must stand

 and clap and sing and dance to snare drum’s beat.

 

Not so the spring this year. It lagged behind

in winter’s chill. We moaned like oboes out

of tune and tubists out of step. Snowblind,

we watched from windows-- full of pout and doubt

 

that spring would ever come. On St. Pat’s Day,

or thereabouts, expected, longed-for warm

returned like oboes back in sync, the splay

of tubists feet back to their rhythmed charm.

 

 We clap our hands and rake those last-year’s leaves

 away from rows of daffodils, re-arch

 the trellises that fell in snow. Our peeves

 forgotten.   Fanfares now: it’s finally March!!

~~

 

PL, March, 2014, for SC-PRA contest

ODE TO OLD MAN WINTER

There's a mean cold snap a-comin'
just as sure as my name's Jones.
I can feel it in my neck
and in my back and in my bones.

Oh, I'm ready for the ice, because
I cut down all my trees.
No more limbs and branches breaking
bringing power to its knees.

I've got snowshoes I can strap on
when I go to get the mail
and the papers. Plus, a mackinaw--
protection from the hail.

Bring it on, you old man winter;
test my mettle, if you dare.
I am up to doing battle--
me and my dear woman, Claire.

We've got stacks of cordwood drying;
all our preparations done . . .
Would you look outside this mornin' . . .

Don't that beat all? There's the sun!!

c lovepat press 2010