Barefoot

There are still bare branches outside the window;

browned, winter-kissed bramble shivers

lifelessly in the spring breeze,

smelling of rain and thunder.

The air rumors of life, but I’ve

yet to see it beneath these grey skies.

 

I don’t know how one goes about

starting these adventures.

Are my bare feet enough?

 

Sometimes, I still try to talk to the birds.

When we share the grass mattress I feel close enough,

so I chirp like a child that doesn’t know better.

A child can never know that they won’t talk back.

 

This morning the birds flew back into the grey skies.

I was left bare-footed beneath bare branches

that let the rain flood me and the browned bramble.

Verdant Hymn

There’s a welling up, as of waves,

in me, but also without me –

I am only a member of the swell;

a vessel, uproarious with delight

as the waves pass through me.

 

Sweet energy! Glory! Rebirth!

Laughter and mirth are all we are

in these streaks of redemption!

 

The taste of a silent, still buzz

of electricity fluttering in air,

like the first rays of Spring’s sun;

the quiet hum beneath sparrows’ song.

 

The clear, fragrancy of the beginning

to vernal eternity, telling us – nay!

Crooning to us:

            winter was well worth waiting through.

Beneath Birch Saplings

Blinded as we pull back the curtains.

A sigh from the sill

as we lift the window, caressed

by a breath of outside.

 

The smell of newborn blooms

mingling with the rust

of the screened-in porch.

Warmth.

 

Sight returns. Sunshine.

The floor is agape with it,

the waves of it lapping

against our ankles

while the daffodils on the sill

twist their roots in ecstasy.

 

We lay on the floor,

and grass sprouts

between the tiles,

cracking the boards.

 

We run our fingers through,

and through the blades

as if they were the hair of a lover;

We bury our faces in the scent of it.

The Day Spring Came Early

Golden light sprawls from our feet

like the sun’s roots as we walk in the morning,

while the air is still rubbing sleep from its eyes

and blooming trees push out their leaves

to adjust to the undue brightness.

 

Seedlings of grass burst with joy

from our chest and laugh with us

as they break the permafrost

to spread sunlight through the soil.

 

Glory. O! Glorious exultation is the air

that fills our lungs: fresh cut grass glued

to the skin by sweet smelling sweat

spent for the glory of another.

 

O! how tumultuous is the song of selfless Spring;

sung by sparrows, beeches and our browning skin!

Iris Blooms

I’m told she had green eyes, but I can’t tell

by the face forever frozen in black and white.

 

I tried to take a step beyond the glass once,

but the frame held me in place, making faces.

 

Eyes hover over broken surfaces like mirrors,

but what is a soul when it’s set on the mantelpiece?

 

Her lips never move, though I’m sure they spoke

as often as my own, but her eyes follow me.

 

Springtime. The frame is grass and irises and the

glass is far enough to ignore, but for bent sunlight.

 

I take the photo into the air that breathes itself.

Look me in the eyes if you want to see in color.