Waiting for Spring; Time for a Poem

NOTE: A post from last spring, moved over to this blog. I'll hammer one out in time for this spring.

The other day, I noticed it wasn't completely dark at 5:00 PM. During a particularly wondrous setting sun event last week, I remembered that Spring keeps its promise to always come around to bring some green. I suppose there are some things you can depend on in this life besides taxes and death.

I wrote this poem some time ago. It's time to dust it off as the sun sets a little bit later each day.

(cue: G. Harrison "Here Comes the Sun")


Spring

Cold, hard reminders of winter’s grip
fail to halt the promise of Spring.

Chilled nights, early sunrises prepare
for the life giving thaw.

And I breathe deeply, drinking in
the warming air.

Young children, flower buds of
humanity play, squeal in delight
and wonder.

Magical season, with each visit I ponder
and realize,

This is the beginning of the New Year.

Sure, we have plenty of winter left, but it's still nice to know its ticket is just about to be punched.

Winter Haiku 2008

#1
Floating leaves swimming
along the concrete river,
"drains to the ocean".

#2
Raven calls the flock
to share in his cold treasure,
rat torn asunder.

#3
Winter rain softly
spatters purple lavender,
my gift from summer.

Poem: Pocket Full of Clouds

Pocket Full of Clouds

When I was a young boy
I wanted to put clouds
in my pocket.

I knew clouds moved
because they were alive
and breathed

I thought the clouds could play
a game of hide and seek
and always win

The sky was always bigger
when there were clouds
to fill the empty space

Now that I am old man
I know the clouds are
still alive and will be

When I fill the empty space
with only clouds
in my pocket.

December 2008

POEM: "Afternoon"

I wrote this on one of the first days of summer of 2007, but the early morning shadows and the brisk air reminded me of autumn. The trail I was walking was cooled from a shower just before day break and the sounds of foraging birds filled the air, accented with the rustling of drying brush.

Just that week a comment from a friend said that autumn was her favorite time of the year, (I concurred) and this poem came to be. It may seem odd to write a poem about the fall on the first day of summer, but whatcha gonna do?

This is the first draft, and was certainly subject to review and several edits. But I never touched it after it was originally posted.

AFTERNOON
It is the afternoon
of the year.

Autumn spreads before me
long-legged shadows,
the air filtered
with the sweet
detritus of summer.

It is the season
of memory-filled sighs,
fire-hued trees,
a nuzzling of the soul
before long
days of night
and
the cold embrace
of leafless limbs
against
colorless skies.

It is the time
of seeking
warm
hands
loose
scarves
and promising
smiles.

It is the afternoon,
the welcome
restful,
well earned afternoon
of the year.

Terry L. Tyson
June 2007