A flock of spring poems

Design

Could it be snowing?

I thought between seeing

and reason:

Catkins and bud scales,

carnelian dendrites,

a blizzard of aspen flowers

Flirting and flitting

with lime-green keys:

Vibrant! Crystalline!

A deep and timeless reservoir

of consciousness and longing

came to mind

By design.

Nancy J. Wallace

Oneness

Here one is, not alone,

simply solitary.

There is a difference.

The singular crow, a beacon,

rests on a limb at the edge

of a windbreak, beyond which

his flock feeds, cawing, full of corn.

The farmer, his planter parked,

the engine of the tractor hushed,

thinks of every spring like this,

how he had seen all of them,

how by himself he was part of this,

sweet with honeysuckle that he nursed

from the bloom, breaking each blossom,

putting the nectar on his tongue,

two drops from each golden flute.

Meanwhile the crows are raucous

in the trees, keepers of the long days.

Robert Parham

Leaves

I know they're not

looking in the window,

though they appear to be,

all those maple leaves

on the trees that surround

the house. Their stretch

is just for light of course,

and yet the pointed tips

of many leaves brush the glass

with such curiosity, such

apparent interest,

that one personifies them.

I have an interest in them,

why not they in us?

Perhaps they record

somewhere in their cambium

each time we stretch or arch our brows,

and this is what tree rings are -

all their notes, taken down

in tree.

Paul O. Williams

Sunday in spring

I never noticed

the hyacinths' purple curls

until this morning

when yellow daffodils

rang their frayed bells

from collars of stars.

Each leaf,

each blade of grass

vies for attention.

Even weeds

carry tiny blossoms

to astonish us.

As bird songs collide

in the air,

my voice loses its place.

The garden keeps changing.

Every day, glossy with light,

I memorize where I live.

Marianne Poloskey

(c) Copyright 2000. The Christian Science Publishing Society