There comes that time

Just as March ends and

In its grudging retreat

New green shoots

Sprout through the drear

Of the winter-wearied earth

That makes you want to yearn for Spring.

Ah, but the Poet and the Pragmatist vie

In me for attention, and what I see

From here is the stone-cold garden

Unturned, and the shed where the pitted timbers

Need their nails, and their new uprightness.

All before the paint is slapped on freshly

White and the new can cover up the old

Perhaps it was the harshness of this winter

That gives me pause in my pre-laboring thought.

‘Twas the snow, yes, but also the fierce noises

Of the blustering winds, roaring overlong,

Chilling not only the earth, but the soul.

It was a time to realize I was too weary for the battles

But my blood still runs too hotly to ignore

In the eaves of the barn, the owls hoot softly;

Their big eyes closed against the darkness;

Their feathers trembling in their sleep as

They await the zephyrs of a redeeming spring

On the fence posts, crows flock to roost and the raven

Eyes the land with keen appraisal for its ravishment

This winter, the vultures fed on them all.

I am supposed to be in a happy mood, I think.

The young girls in their blowsy skirts are resurfacing

To make me smile and the warm air and sunshine

Promises sunburn and baseball and beer. Still, the

Barn is falling down and the shed is mottled grey

And I, who have always had a discerning eye, wonder

If it is time to turn it to rebuilding, not rebirth

Once, pixies danced in my imagination and played their fifes.

I once heard their melodies of spring and took heart,

For their music was like a kiss upon my

Breast; a fire in my soul. But this is a different place.

My eyes see too much; my heart has glazed with ice;

Life has taken on a more prosaic bent,

And spring, this time, is just another season

04/13/2003

Posted on 04/13/2003
Copyright © 2024 Ken Harnisch