Irises may be silent, but not stilled; too much pollen for that. It can be exhausting to be in the eye of Spring; make sure to linger over a second cup of tea. Stare out a window, don't be alarmed by surprise. Tuck surprise into a corner of a pocket. A snack for the journey ahead. Time is always a journey, isn't it? Remember, it only takes 26 letters in some-such combination to make a poem.
4/8/19
ReplyDeletereading this, i think of spring, as the primal time of birth--and of my own of course, not quite a memory but certainly an event that is memorialized on every legal document, of which there seem to be quite a few in one's life these days.
On my bureau, a favorite picture, me, standing up on the bassinette in flushing meadows, ny, a smiling new mom holding a wobbly chubby-legged girl up as the day begins. In the background, baby powder, various unidentifiable objects, and a patterned wallpaper, striped I think. My mother in pigtails, her always platinum hair in some "do" as she progresses through the picture albums I now treasure.
So, yes, spring is the scent of immortality, our renewal--of ideas, of passions, of our favorite songs and our bike rides along the destiny of our future, as winding and treacherous road as one could ever imagine.
Who could predict we would be reading our words with those we know and those we do not, at the wonderful neighborhood corner bar which later became a shuttered wounded haunt.
Conflagration--I did write a poem with that theme, and in it were tne footsteps of someone no one else could see.