Your love song lapsed into ancient French that April day.
I only understood the words of spring and heartsore
lapsed. Only love and heartsore, I understood your ancient
words of the spring-day song into that French April.
You fabricate my pauses into repetition, silence speaks
of ages strung to rhyme in love’s difficult service
you strung into pauses in service to ages. Fabricate of
love’s repetition, rhyme speaks my difficult silence.
We practice tedium of vows till language breaks apart.
As if art should aim at science, rigorous, quantitative,
rigorous language breaks tedium. Science vows a part of
quantitative practice till we should aim “as if” at art.
Till we lapsed into language. As your ancient ages only
fabricate quantitative French strung to that difficult
practice, science speaks of tedium and understood rhyme.
The spring in service of love’s rigorous vows. April
pauses, heartsore. You and I, apart. If love should aim
my words at day, repetition breaks into silence of song.
Copyright © Taylor Graham | Year Posted 2006
SPRING GARDEN PREPARATION (20150213)
After the winter season
But before the rains begin
Catalogues of heirloom seeds
Delivered just in time
Earmarked and prioritized
Farmer’s Almanac consulted
Given planting periods
Horoscopes included (but useless!)
Individual seed varieties ordered
Junk mail shredded and added to compost
K (potassium) added as potash
Lumber purchased for trellises
Mulching around transplanted seedlings
Non-Genetically Modified Organisms only
Organic fertilizers only, too
Planting by phases of the moon
Quick-fix pesticides are anathema
(Round-Up kills everything--US, not just weeds)
Seed boxes keeping seedlings warm
Testing the soil for minerals and organics
Unleashing ladybugs and pollinators
Vertical gardening to conserve space
Watering just enough, but not too much
Xenocide, killing unwanted weed species
Youngsters helping (or hindering)
Zoning plants to vary root depths
Copyright © Mark J. Halliday | Year Posted 2015
Living bright yellow,
Daffodils spring to action,
Not auctioned but free,
They give themselves to us all,
Natural, from earth,
Grown and evolved unquestioned,
The story tale.
More daffodils just,
Before them came ancestors,
Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2016
Laying still on the ground you can hear a distant echo,
They say a tidy holocaust, a blackness in the tomorrow.
An eternal sleep set on the drawing of breath,
No great judgment, just a quiet walking death.
That in goodly and ignorant steps took like a panther.
Stealth and lowly crept and sunk it's teeth deeper,
And more deadly than any sort of furious war.
In paleness and horror human ideology crashed to the floor,
History ceased and sent it's last broadcast into space.
And in time now we hear the sound-waves keeping pace,
Like synchronised watches an echo from the years to come.
In shuddering earth you can certainly hear the silent spring,
A haunting voice in the mind of every living thing.
Here comes the silent spring, no worry, no joy, no fuss.
A whispered prayer, oh why have the gods forsaken us.
Copyright © Mathieu de Casanove | Year Posted 2010
Why can't spring
last as a deep feeling,
and remain joyful and eternal?
What makes this season so vital and wonderful...
adorning our earth with flowers so delightful?
Who is so dubious to disclaim it?
True faith admits no doubt...
will the heart?
My spring was too brief,
only desire outlived it...
floating as a leaf:
to taste death on barren ground:
such is the fate of all leaves!
Perhaps nostalgia is deeper than regret,
making me yearn with useless tears
and in doing so sorrow deepens...
without realizing I have no control over it.
Return spring with a new child in me,
making me run towards the sunflowers' filelds
increasing my chances to find serenity...
return spring, but don't be short and cheerless.
Years age the body, not the spirit...
as seasons remind us how fragile we are:
living one life and returning dust as before...
without voice, flesh, blood and thought.
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2010