OPUS

Written by: Bruce Schuhart


I watched the sun introduce this day of spring
The way a violin might introduce
The opening movement of a concerto –
It rose slowly, softly,
And kept rising until it was fully present.
Melting icicles, clinging tenaciously
To budding pine boughs,
Sent drops of liquid crystal
That fell like notes form a harp
Into the pond below.
Tiny waves rippled over the keyboard surface
Of the orchestral pool.
A spring breeze blew like a flute
Through the leafy limbs
Of surrounding trees.
The tympanic knocking of their branches
Kept time for all to hear.
From farther down the bank
Came the territorial trumpeting of a swan,
And overhead were the horn honks
Of returning geese.
The lonely cries of a mourning dove
Floated through the air
Like the haunting notes of an oboe.
Then, each in their turn,
Began the robin, cardinal and chickadee
Singing in their woodland choir
To an innate heavenly score.
Throughout the morning
This symphony of spring
Continued to play
With myself as the audience,
And God the conductor.