Spring

spring woods;

a yellow leaf falls –

ah! a butterfly

furrowed field –

the farmer’s face

splits into a grin

spring puddles -

the rain

falling into itself 

spring garden;

the scarecrow stuffed

with autumn straw

tilled ground –

the dry wood

of the hoe’s handle

outstretched arms –

the scarecrow

models his new duds

flame azaleas bloom

in the beds

of a burnt-out house 

 springtime –

for the butterflies and bees,

the season of harvest

dropping from one loneliness

into another –

the chrysalis

cold morning –

the gritty scrape

of the hoe

the starless area

of the sky –

a looming mountain

 

a winter of deaths –

the spring lilies

smell funereal

folded wings –

all of a moth

the spider left

butterfly

on a rake’s handle –

perhaps, it’s dreaming

the clink of our gear,

no words between us

this cold mountain morning

 

the magnolia blossoms

discolor

in the cold May rain

roses cling

to the stone house –

our late neighbor

a dewy rose –

the papery wings

of a butterfly

like the dew –

spring evanesces

into summer

after the burial –

a day moon

rising

a sparrow alights –

the gate chain dropping

a chain of dew

near the hayfield fences,

bumblebees

visit the milk thistle

a brief shower –

plum petals float

in the fresh puddles

spring thaw –

drop by drop, the opaque

becomes transparent

urban garden –

roses scale

the razor wire fence

flies buzz the dung;

monarchs dip

into the azaleas

thumps and patters

on my umbrella –

under the plums and out

plum petals,

bird droppings

on the garden buddha

 

the slightest waft

reveals their presence –

gardenias

the passing of spring –

my empty

sake cup

impatient

for the dewberries -

the redbirds and I

a day of plowing –

furrows crimp

our long shadows

 

silent labors –

a moth, a spider,

the yellow rose

its silent shape –

the bell’s shadow

on the garden wall

spring garden;

each year I look

more like the scarecrow

 storm winds
roughen the lake,
stretch the willows eastward

                                                dogwood blossoms -

                                                               last to fade 

in the twilight 

spring day;

red wagon,

a child pulling a child

spring planting -
the man atop a tractor

loses his cap

late spring -

under the green woods

roll the Appalachian hills

  

four a.m. –

listening to my house

bicker with the rain

afternoon nap –

the rain's patter 
through an open window

winter’s withered brush

mauve-brown

in the sunset’s glow

winter ends –

here and there, dead leaves

still cling  

dogwood blossoms –

last to fade 

in the twilight

lingering – 

the sunset’s glow 

in a handful of fireflies

the bluebird –

a flurry of color

among the sepia hardwoods

winging home 

on warmer winds –

Canada geese

a brief shower –

plum petals float

in the fresh puddles

end of winter – 

small birds flit about

the sunlit grove

gone until autumn –

the steeple  

amid the hardwoods

the waning night –

a bare limb breaks 

the moon into pieces 

a spring sun 

has thawed out

the songbirds

dusting the brambles

like a late snow – 

dewberry blossoms

April slips away . . .

down a scented 

honeysuckle path

sporting    

his spring blues –

the indigo bunting

it looks like . . . but, can’t be –

last autumn’s 

orange butterfly

lush spring –  

between showers,

sunlight silvers the leaves

oh, so delicately,

the moth settles  

on a milk thistle bloom

dusk sinks into dark;

a lone firefly’s

jagged flight 

midmorning;

deer vanish   

in the hardwood shadows

the rains let up;

everywhere in the gorge,

the river’s roar

milk in the bowl 

purple-tinged –

blackberry spring

along the fence,

a spring colt

races my automobile

pothole -

a patch of sky

on the wet street