Wild Poems

Remember the rhyme about April showers and May flowers? Well, it hardly does justice to the moisture that has fallen from the sky these past days. It's as if it rained green and the land responded with an eruption of lime and emerald hues.

If seasons were a four act play early spring would be the star of the second act: the shifty character that slips in and out of scenes, sometimes bright and lively stealing the show, other times lurking almost menacingly in the background.

Beneath ice, water stirs. Rivers still run. Lakes sway gently, as fish gather in warm water pockets; and beaver, otter, and weasels nestle in their dens moving about under their frozen ceiling.

There is a pause now this quiet Solstice time before light slowly lengthens. The temptation, to count the days. To hold our breath until daylight stretches into evening early morning forcing back the darkness.

For the peace and promise of a sunrise. The quickening of breath that comes when we take in the beauty of our surroundings. For the mystery and humility of daring to see how we are all connected.

That's what they call it. When we in the north find ourselves in shirt sleeves in November. It feels like borrowed time. A chance to finish up fall chores that we thought would be missed.