Monday, September 21, 2015

It is almost Fall, but I want it to be Spring

Spring is, not really. This time of year fools me and makes the hard truth of winter seem so much more daunting. Mabon is Wednesday, and the air has turned soft and full with crisp cold in the morning and hot sun and cold shade, and you never know what to wear. The birds sound like morning as they gather for their vacations. The trees are all glorious, not with new buds, but with the glow of wise age. It isn't April, but here is the poem, just the same.


Soft fat raindrops
full of road
dust and grasses,

empty rose bushes
lush with the eggs
of songbirds,

a bear stumbling
lean and hungry
for Spring;

there’s still ice
locking in the marsh
earth and holding my
heart captive,

but I can see from
my frozen perch 
the warmth of May
and the foxes
giving birth.

© all rights reserved Julie Reeser

photo credit: Igor Shpilenok

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