Flow

A Poem

Image by Annette Meyer, Pixabay

I remember where and when this was written. I lived on a farm where springs ran beneath the lawn and field. In the springtime, in places, little waterspouts pushed up through the wet earth like fountain bubblers. In the marshy field behind the hedgerow, willows shook their braids and black haws readied themselves for blossom. It was chilly this day, and wet, but I was out breathing the wild air of the equinox and feeling the hum of the waking world. A poem can be, and often is, a story. This one is a quiet vignette rather than a story entire. Could this be transformed somehow into a story? Feel free to use it as a prompt if you are inclined.

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FLOW

Spring turns the year’s heavy wheel.

Blossoms speak to the air.

The first thin bees rouse from winter’s spell,

As Beauty from her briar-girt bed,

To scuffle tigerishly in the crocus cups.

***

Beneath the boggy lawn, water sprints

In audible exuberance, eager to be moving,

Rushing for the bottom land

Where the willows and the black haws wade.

***

The earth is opening to the rains, to the returning

Love of the Sun, stroked into green ecstasy.

***

And we are close as twins now, my blood beats with hers,

Rising like the maple sap that drips, drips, into the sugar buckets,

And shoots, a savage fire, to the tough red buds.

The trees burst with being, with ancient green-flaming life.

***

The door of the Equinox stands ajar.

Spring turns the year’s heavy wheel.