I thought it was still Monday when I set out to transcribe this; I'd had three hours' sleep Sunday night and none Tuesay night, and I'm a bit addled. (I slept 18 hours last night, a personal best.) The occasion for this sleepless extravaganza was the last, mad push to finish, at last, the compost article, which I sent out yesterday. Afterwards I felt rather like a somewhat limp helium balloo that might just drift away over the landscape.
Anyway, I thought it was Monday, but it wasn't, so this isn't really a Garden Blogger's Muse Day contribution. It's even less of one than it should be, because I forgot to post it yesterday.
The poem itself is one I wrote years ago. Even though it's about Minnesota, it applies pretty well to spring here in Montana. I remember writing it after a March visit back east, where I looked around with a profound dis-ease. (I'd grown up there, but I'd been away for a long time.) There lay the snow across the green grass; here came the crocuses, poking their vivid heads up through the grass, through the snow.
Back in Minnesota, and here, when the snow finally melts, the land looks as though it's been scoured. I haven't even seen that first red-winged blackbird this year, but I know he's coming.
winter lays so light a hand
crocuses push through the snow
and when it lifts,
Out here, white fades to grey
to tan, fawn, brown, all greys
grey clouds above grey fields…
Land so tightly pressed cannot spring back.
Like a fighter hit once too often
the earth just lies there,
looking ready to reconsider the whole thing:
pack it up, pack it in,
forget summer, retract spring–
Life's on hold–
Except in the air. It supports
wing on wing.
And in the first brilliant red spot on black,
balanced, quivering, on a twig bare
as winter's bony finger, I see intact
the season's promised colors