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by Brett Rutherford

 

Forsooth, forsythia!
O purple crocodiles
and yellow Daffyducks!

The young red Robber

awaits the day's eye.

It reigns! It reigns!

 

Tomorrow the yellow

dandy, lying in shade,

two lips pursed for a kiss.

asks where all the squirrels

slept, and what they dreamt.

 

Blossoms' bosoms burst,

mounting mountain laurels'

magnolia magnetic majesty,

hag-wig witch hazel

aburst from branch.

A whirl and a whoosh —

the flood! The flood!

Spring Earth

Somewhere it is always spring—

here, too, perhaps,

within these barren trees.

The thought, the idée fixe

the twig to be

outlasts the snowstorms.

Its double helix symphony

sleeps on in xylem,

unravels in sequestered leaves.

Some seeds refuse to sprout

until a winter has seasoned them,

as cunning monarchs outlive

their enemies.

Earth thaws.

Tendrils reach out

beneath me.

Seed’s urge unjackets me,

soaks me to root in run

   through falling rain.

I taste the sky,

    limestone and elemental iron,

    phosphor and calcium,

inhale the animal sweetness of air,

soak up the sunlight,

open a cotyledon eye,

banish all frost

in bacchanalian riot.

It is time! It is time!