Here is a poem that I wrote a little while back when I was particularly pining for spring. Although it is late April I’m still pining for spring. I live in New Hampshire. I may be pining for spring until July when it arrives and we have our three and a half days of summer.
I am a tight fist in the frozen earth. Un-noteworthy. Not as firm as a stone nor of enduring value like a gem.
I sense muffled footsteps, feathery breezes, trill of song, snapping twig, and whisper of rain from another world which I dream of entering, and will enter dreaming. Now I follow a code to remain still, quiet, unnoticed.
As the cold soil grows buttery and smells brown and green, I will slowly burst, rise and morph. Press up blind and grasp down sure, spidery tendril explorers, curious in the thick dark dirt. I stretch, moving to my limits, to take what I need and search for what I crave.
And then a bold blade of me will play red carpet for my fleeting celebrity As the audience, hungry for color and celebration, awaits, my face will emerge, innocent, to reveal my velvet firework in modest dazzle.