—Poetry by Kimberly Bolton, Jefferson City, MO
—Public Domain Photos
WAKING TO BIRD SONG
It is the song of birds that wakes me from a sound sleep,
loud, incorrigibly happy, tweeting and twittering
outside my window.
Their matins song of adoration to the season,
on this first really, truly, spring morning.
I cannot elaborate enough on the merits of bird song.
It is as significant as the deep soul-silence of the long winter
just past.
Their tiny bird hearts swell nearly to bursting with song,
as if they can, by sheer will alone, cause the sap
to rise in the trees, the misty-green buds to appear
on the tips of branches,
or better yet, to bring the sun up like a wide smile
over the eastern horizon.
I can feel a tingle and an awakening in me, also.
My own sap rising, blood fueling in my veins.
My soul unfurling at the roots.
My own song struggling up from the depths,
which may become a poem later.
Or not.
I just may cast aside pen and paper for today,
in favor of going outside to indulge in the greening details of earth.
To listen to all it has to tell me.
It makes one wonder that we don’t all wake up singing.
It is the song of birds that wakes me from a sound sleep,
loud, incorrigibly happy, tweeting and twittering
outside my window.
Their matins song of adoration to the season,
on this first really, truly, spring morning.
I cannot elaborate enough on the merits of bird song.
It is as significant as the deep soul-silence of the long winter
just past.
Their tiny bird hearts swell nearly to bursting with song,
as if they can, by sheer will alone, cause the sap
to rise in the trees, the misty-green buds to appear
on the tips of branches,
or better yet, to bring the sun up like a wide smile
over the eastern horizon.
I can feel a tingle and an awakening in me, also.
My own sap rising, blood fueling in my veins.
My soul unfurling at the roots.
My own song struggling up from the depths,
which may become a poem later.
Or not.
I just may cast aside pen and paper for today,
in favor of going outside to indulge in the greening details of earth.
To listen to all it has to tell me.
It makes one wonder that we don’t all wake up singing.
NECESSITY
It’s like a magic act,
the season suddenly springing upon us,
needing no encouragement.
Tulips of every color popping up,
like a surprise party.
Long-stemmed purple iris rippling
in waves in the warm breeze.
Beyond the tree line,
you can just make out the blush of the dogwood flower
peeping out at us from deep within the green wood,
betraying the demure shyness of maidens stricken
with desire for the very first time,
while the glut of roses edging the house
compete for dominance.
Spring is a shivaree of color,
with everything opening at once in a scramble for attention,
like a child wanting to show off the picture she drew
with every crayon in the box.
In the hills and hollows the voices of trees
begin to talk without pause for breath.
There’s so much to talk about among themselves,
since the cold-shouldered silence of winter.
And who else is there to listen except us?
We have ears to hear, a nose to take in the scent
of fresh-turned earth, green growing things.
Eyes with which to take it all in.
This is the season to put all our senses to good use.
To allow our soul to bud and unfurl with hope,
with affirmation of life.
We are as necessary to the spring season,
as spring is a necessity for us.
SPRING TREES
After Sylvia Plath
It is a world of green grass now
And a world of trees greening.
So much color, so much life,
Right in front of our eyes.
And the trees!
Hip-deep in history, with ring upon ring
Of memory to prove the past does exist.
The trees in their great slow patience,
Steadfast, dignified,
Are something we can only stand in reverence of.
We are no concern of theirs, the trees,
With all of our spinning in the sun,
Trying to outdo time.
Trees know nothing of politics, depressed economies,
Wars or pandemics.
Our own foolishness and fears are too undignified
For the sublime grandeur of trees.
If they could they would pity us,
Indiscriminate creatures that we are.
Here, trees congregate on this fine spring day,
Leaves ripening like children under the sun,
Stirred to life by warm breezes,
With much to say and no understanding or knowledge
Of social distancing.
We had our chance.
Now let the trees gather us to them,
Cradle us like pietas in green shade,
Their sad birdsong tendering our common heart.
DANDELIONS
Don’t you just love it when the dandelions burst on the scene?
An entire universe of them!
As if the whole world has broken out into one big smile!
Because most people think of dandelions as nothing
but a pest and a bother,
I reluctantly go along with that assessment,
help to pull them up by their roots,
watch the lawn mower chew them up,
feeling like I’m an accessory to murder.
After all, it’s not the dandelion’s fault
for being what it is.
We are indebted to the Pilgrims for bringing
dandelion seeds across the pond in the hold of the Mayflower.
And the French to thank for the misnomer dents de lion,
which means lions’ teeth.
I have yet to be bitten by a dandelion head.
My grandmother used to collect dandelion greens
for her supper.
A friend of mine still makes dandelion wine each summer.
Bees have a consummate love affair with this gorgeous
weed all summer along.
As a child, those eye-catching flowers made a sweet bouquet
I brought to my mother who put them in a mason jar
of water and set them on the windowsill.
My sister and I plaited yellow crowns for our hair,
as we ran barefoot through the eternity of childhood.
When the flower inevitably morphed into fairy fluff,
wishes were made, then sent out into the world
on a puff of breath, only to land in the neighbor’s yard,
who didn’t fully appreciate my dreams coming to rest on his lawn.
Now, well past middle age,
I still walk barefoot among the dandelions.
Still make a wish or two.
I hear them whisper to me:
Come back! Come back!
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
If winter comes, can spring be far behind?
—Percy Bysshe Shelley, Ode to the West Wind
_____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Kimberly Bolton for her cheery poems about Spring on this April morning ~
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
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Would you like to be a SnakePal?
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work from all over the world—including
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Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
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clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
