Delay of Spring

 

Tis Fryday, the end of a brutal work week

and I’m nestled in the den surrounded by books, art and music.

Around the Block sings from the stereo; indie artists taking my breath away.

Its been raining for days, which is most welcomed as soil is very dry,

a silent thank you to the heavens for this life giving moisture.

With rain cooler temps arrive that cause the garden to halt its growth.

I survey the garden and see it being covered in a blanket of white.

No No No, this is not right, this is not Spring.

The twolips, having disappeared from existence for years,

finally made their appearance this spring.

Now they are being held hostage to the elements.

The lone Red Poll has landed in the bird feeder,

pecking at what is left after the Ravens feast.

Robin feeding her brood cuddles them into herself

anxiously living out the storm. Will they survive this temp?

Scillia’s, daffiies, lillies and yew are bound down

under the weight of white shite, Will they rebound?

I sigh remembering the garden just this morn was a carpet of green

now lays cloaked in white velvet.

Damn you old man Winter! Begone with you!
You are no longer welcome here by any living creature.
Siren of Spring, where are you? Have you not the strength to battle him for rights?
Tis time Siren, herald your troops of a warm sun, gentle winds, and clear skies.

Banish him from this land for we have weathered enough of his follies,

we need a land of heat, a sky of blue, we need Spring.

spring blizzard - haiku

 late spring snow blizzard

daffies in bloom now broken

petals lay frozen

honey bees swarming

seeking open fresh flowers

are spent in repose

lilac, apple buds

glistening after the storm

in brilliant sunshine

slumber

 slumber find me

wrap me in your arms

silent, til I have rest enough

allow not waking

bird song to break

your spell of deep sleep

nor train whistles

speeding through town

singing at every crossroad

just let this mind and body

to relax and shut off

without thought or dream

slumber find me

this one night this week

I need the purge of life

my books

 

What I’ve missed the most during the past year is perusing book shops. I am a collector with book cases overflowing with worn paged books, columns of read and yet to be read stacked in another corner of the den, piles of half read, when become bored, laying beside me bed. Tis me good night tradition, when done, the page is marked and light extinguished. I fall asleep with the writers vision in me head. A sweet way to end the day.

It’s not just the title or inscriptions, but the cover art that also entices me. Like a fine bottle of wine, the label speaks volumes. The artist, be a scribe or a vintner, designs the label to suit the song. And I, an aficionado of art, sings along with the story.

A few found delights are The Bar Harbor Retirement Home for Famous Writers, The Peacock Feast, The Lost Painting, The Chef’s Secret, The Hare with Amber Eyes, The Mermaid and Mrs. Hancock. There are many more that have found new homes with adventurous eyes and minds. I can’t write enough about seeking new authors with interesting tales to tell.

Books with a story, be it fiction or non, can envelope me so tight I find it difficult to breathe until the reading of the next chapter.  Steampunk, art, gardening, architecture, history, faerie tales, and even pop-up.  If they whisper to me, I will bring them home. Just say my name and I’m yours.