New Poem: New This Season

Since I've started working at my great outdoor museum, I tend to spend a lot of time outside.  So much of my job revolves around what's growing, blooming, dying, falling, that every so often, I have to write about it. Right now the big question is when the daffodils will be out. (Not for a while -- we can't magically turn them on, you know.)

But there's something really pretty, really hopeful about seeing the little green leaflets peak up out of the dead grass -- kind of like that flash of lace on racy underwear, a promise of further delight.

Hence, the poem.

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NEW THIS SEASON

Today it is April, and I know
That Earth, too, is itching to peel off her winter- white long johns
in favor of the coming season’s newest floral frocks.
Still, Winter lingers, and with it,
the heavy coats of snow, the caps of ice.
Yet Earth begins to dream in polychrome.

Just yesterday I saw a hint of green-spaded lace peeking out
from underneath the snow-white nightgown
and there were sprays of witch-hazel in her hair.
On my morning walk the squill, spilling out in blue haze along the hillside,
promised new delights for her next lover
when those tired brown leaves finally get packed away.

Oh, sister, I am with you.
I, too, am tired of feeling frumpy.
Bring out your blue dress and your shoes that shine.

Spring (poor silly man) is waiting just around the corner to make his entrance,
sweep you off your feet with sweet words and sprays of flowers.
But your friend Winter is still lounging at the door
 Even though we’ve all told him, more than once, to go home
and take his troubles with him.

 (Spring is at heart a coward’s season
Creeping in when Winter finally packs his dingy whites and leaves.)

So we wait.

But there was birdsong from behind your boudoir door
and my heart wished you would just open up
and sing that tramp right off your doorstep.