Spring is never as we remember it:
Too soon, too hot, too dry, too cold —
Forgetting that the earth wobbles,
What sort of spring do we seek?
The one we’re convinced we recall
Twenty years ago when
The smell of fresh cut grass
Daydreamed itself through the parted window
And into pre-Algebra,
Two fifteen in the afternoon;
Then, when the arrival of spring meant
One day beneath the cold flat stone
The salamanders weren’t there,
But the next, beautifully, they were.
Not only do I look forward in but also reading your weekly poems. I love to visualize the content as I read. Thank you
Nicely done. Puts me in mind if the days about 60-plus years ago playing by a creek in my neighborhood.
Your poems are becoming a highlight of my week. I’m too lazy to respond to each one individually, but every one resonates in a surprising and comforting way. I don’t know how a hard-working farmer finds the time to distill these insights so eloquently, but I’m very grateful!