Oops, I Did It Again (spring as prompt)
Oops, I Did It Again
I am not going to write a poem, I say. I will be present, simply present. No need to press perception to paper, No call to flatten the roundness of day into fragments of speech or winnowing words. But finches are pecking at their maple perch, and nettle is rising to purple the mud. Geese are calling, they echo the water, rushed and rising from recent rain. Winter delivers end punctuation. SPRING is printed in capital letters. Plum blossoms gleam as white as the page, and everywhere green alliterates the ground, stems sprung from the same beginning— warmth, water, sun. If I’m not meant to write a poem, then the earth ought to be far more prosaic.
Photo by Daan Sitters on Unsplash
The Prompt
Given the daffodils and birdsong that have appeared in your recent poems (shared in the comments thread), I’m guessing that spring is finding its way to many of your yards and green spaces, too. Nature is offering itself up as a prompt for your next poem! This fact isn’t unique to the changing of seasons, of course. But when the world around us shifts, we tend to come out of our trances and pay more attention. And deep attention, in my experience, is where magic, insight, connection, inspiration, and poetry are born.
Spend some time outside or seated at your favorite window, and watch the unfurling of spring. Take it in with more than one sense. Open that window to let in the birdsong. Slip out of your shoes to feel the grass or moss or mud with the soles of your feet. Maybe there’s something for you to taste or smell? I’ve been enjoying the scent of cedar sprigs rolled between finger and thumb, as well as bittersweet bites of collards and dock that made it through the winter.
For a few minutes at least, don’t try to find a poem in all of this. Just be with the experience. After all, what’s the worst that will happen? You’ll “waste” a few minutes of your day enjoying the splendor of nature, with nothing but your own peace, presence, and improved biochemical markers to show for it? That hardly sounds like a tragedy. My suspicion is this, though. If you stay present with the experience long enough, a poem (or whatever insight you most need in the moment) will find you.
I look forward to reading whatever you share—be that poems, reflections, or your experience of what it’s like to simply take your time greeting the greening world. I’m not sure if I have any southern hemisphere or equatorial readers out there, but if so, please know that poems and reflections on autumn or on the subtler changes that always exist between one day and the next are welcome and appreciated, too!
Also, to the dear, darling lurkers out there. Thank you for being here! And it is never, ever too late to share a poem in the comments. We would love to read whatever you come up with and wrap it in a big, awkward, digital hug.
I give you....the ode to the "mosquito hawk"
I suppose we have given them too much credit
Those feathery harmless harbingers of spring in the south.
They appear with the warmer, yet still cool, days
Along with the dandelions and henbit
That carpet our not so landscaped rural yards.
Prey rather than predator and not long for this world
Much like our short lived spring
Which swiftly segues into summer.
LIsa, your poem is beautiful and makes me miss the Virginia moutnain spingtimes, which unfold over several weeks, even more. I followed your sugesstions for sitting in mindful observation and listening, and this one emerged. It feels like a penciled-in sketch of a painting to come, but if I were a painter, I fear sketches might be most of what I have!
Ode to DST (Daylight Saving Time)
An hour vanishes without a trace,
and I’m never sure if I am
springing forward or falling back.
But there is always movement.
Even when the stillness swallows me,
and a quiet numbness reaches my bones,
there is beauty to be seen, felt, heard, breathed in.
Not to mention the daylight being saved,
hopefully shared with those places where
shadows seem to linger.
Bluebirds perch on garden fence,
stare down with a Robin inconclusive;
assessing the bird house two trees over,
picky homesteaders browsing Bird BnB.
A salty wind slides off the bay,
faint traces of spring wander in,
fickle and elusive this time of year,
but always full of promise and hope.
A patch of green by the flowers,
mud soup transforms to roller coaster road,
and the talk in the café turns to planting.
Tonight, I’ll wave goodbye dear hour, sixty lovely minutes,
say a prayer for letting go and a dream of reunion.
I’ll welcome you home in Autumn,
satiated by the beauty sprouting forth,
in each blessed day.