i can never be old in
springtime
when ice washes down the
streets in rivulets
suspended soil swirls
patterns in the hurrying streams
lethal ice javelins
lengthening
sound a steady drip...
... drip...
... drip...
as chill still winter
nights bring cold air back
to remind that this is
just a respite
the soil sweet air a tease
of spring
as long as sun rains down
on starving folks
just out nJoying the fleeting
savory perfume
awakened sap rises in the
sugar maples
and tapped trees pour their
sweet life fluids
shared out into buckets
collected
and slowly boiled to syrup
still needing the frozen
nights to create their magic
I can never be old
when the creaky groan of
winter loosens
and the whoosh of rushing
water
quickening juice of Life excites
memories of all the springs
before
and School will be out
soon and
fragile spring burn into
summer
and I’d be on my way to
something new
I can never be old
on springtime Sunday
mornings
when all the town’s at
prayer
and I escape to forest glen
where worlds exist beneath
thin skins of ice
collapsed in upon their fractal
past
patterns bubbles waving
mossy grasses
fiddleheads unfurling
the air a breath of chill
and skies as crisp as a painter’s
vision
all red and gold and
purple-grey against the blue
surprising as the scent of
woodsmoke
caught amongst sheltering
branches
just lightly touched by
infant green
lush yet spare an acid
enigma
klimt would understand
but just now in this delicate
stasis
newborn watercolor pastels
and
hints of scents forgotten
in frozen air
all the dreams of youth
are there
and School will be out soon
and
summer stretches out
before me
the garden blooming
possibilities endless
Worlds unexplored
© 2019
pamela twining
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