Today smells like spring
the rain is warmer
the breeze
gentler
The thick cloud cover
feels insulating, protective,
not threatening
Leaves are unfurling
still tiny
still the bright, new green
of young foliage
Grasses are greening,
springing up fresh with the rain
Last autumn’s dry bulbs
have burst to life
covering the hillsides
with blue and white blooms
The trees,
the grasses,
the wildflowers –
they were dead and now they live.
How can you say you don’t believe in miracles?
Just a little spring fun, as I feel I’ve been taking myself too seriously for awhile now:
Once we were fresh
and tender, young stems
filled with eagerness and
chlorophyll
stretching, reaching
toward the sky
filled with passion,
carpels quivering, stamens straining
seed pods full to bursting.
But now petals drop,
leaves droop,
stems bend and bow.
Cell walls are no longer turgid.
We wait passively
for the Winds of Chance
to blow us down
or the Rabbit of Fortune
or the Crow of Despair
to bite us off at the ground
to steal our seeds
Our green days
are all behind us.
Now we simply wait for the Keeper of the Compost Pile
This is my reply to the writing prompt, “green” from dVerse Poets’ Pub.
In Other Words 