Winter is a Little Time of Life

  

  

  

So, just in case we've forgotten...

The shawl that drapes white- soft on scraggly limb,

And lends its cape to cover field and hill

And locks the valley streams that lilt and brim

With silver song, beneath ice-soldered will

…the gale that wails across pale countryside

And roars, blue-lipped through brittle barrenness

Or lunges at each door and tries to find

Its way into our bones with brute caress

…the corpse-like timberland, where stiffly starched

Attendants observe, sergeant-steely-stern

Our creaking, squeaking footsteps bravely marched

Toward the hearth where dreams and fires burn

…the hunger for color and corridors

Alive with birdsong, where the air is rife

With everything that long we waited for

…is really but a little time of life

© Janet Martin

Hubby delivered cattle to a cheery, lithe-stepped farmer this morning. In a mischievous effort to derail this far-too-happy-for-a-raw-winter-morning farmer, hubby remarked about’ this too long too cold winter’ and Farmer quickly replied that “this cold is really but a little time of life when you stop to think about it, plus it is so good for the earth to rest in deep-freeze. We have snow blowers to move the snow. It’s not so bad”

Then, At the Very Thought Of It

From this...

to this...

 I needed to dig out some 'green-gold bliss'. we are in a long deep, cold spell...

Beneath a sleek and silver sweep

The songs of summer soundly sleep

Tuning the tempest-stricken deep

With hope of spring and things to come

Then, at the very thought of it

The frigid noon-day thaws a bit

And draws the mind to pause and sit

Warmed by a sigh where zephyrs strum

And where mute tree-limbs creak and groan

With winter’s brute- bleak monotone

A gentler melody enthrones

The place that waits for green-gold bliss

Then suddenly, the heart laughs, wild

With hope of foot-loose summer-child

For where ten-thousand sun-beams smiled

Our famished faces sense spring’s kiss

We press our wishes to Time’s glass

Where snow-swaddled arrangements pass

In twirling, swirling choruses

Like minuets of hide-and-seek

While earth, a meek ice-mantled rose

Let’s old Man Winter tweak Her nose

And toes with howls; for oh, she knows

She holds a garden in Her cheek

© Janet Martin

Fresh February Wishes

Ah, fill my cup with summer’s gold

These lips are numb from drinking cold

And let the blue unmingled be

With naught but sun-diamonds on sea

Then let this winter-land delight

To be shaken from robes of white

I yearn to join the eager child

Splashing through green with wonder wild

Glad, unencumbered, let it be

As river-madrigal runs free

Breathe soft into the sleeping dell

Tickle the ice-encased blue-bell

Ah, transform slope to sterling show  

Sweet sunshine, warm away our woe

And if it’s not too much to ask

Please, put some petals in your flask

Unfold upon the cheerless sky

Lilting of lark and butterfly

Stir within earth’s love-laden womb

Every bud waiting there to bloom

…and fill uplifted cups with gold

Long, long we’ve drunk these draughts of cold

Then end our season-suffering

Let every chalice brim with spring

© Janet Martin

I didn’t get any response from the sky so far; only the wind puffing snow-swirls ‘cross the field, so I pour a cup of ‘fresh’ mint tea with leaves we harvested last summer.

February Fantasies...(tweaked re-post from a year ago today)

It would be fine to wander and squander

A dew-drenched, daisy-strewn dazzling new day

And fritter the glitter of freshly-hung moments

Into the nonchalant meadows of May

It would be grand to guilt-freely amble

Through giddy violet-for-get-me-not dell

Heedless of hours wielding a grim gavel

Over the vagrant and fragrant spring swell

It would be splendid to soak in sun-puddles

Teased by a zephyr with sassy-sweet mouth

Splashed with potion wrought by April’s ocean

Dancing with vagabond winds from the south

It would be sweet to languish in bare feet

Appeasing and pleasing fancy’s wanderlust

With treasure of pleasure in middle-May measure

Teasing our traipsing through daydreams of dust

It would be thrilling if mornings were willing

To pause in the spilling of Jack Frosted glow

Then dangle a spangle of spring-ribbon tangles

Or float on the froth of pink apple-bloom snow

Somewhere the splendor of buds, buxom, tender

Startles the drifter on his footloose way

We cannot hurry winter’s fretting flurry

Every February must first have its day

© Janet Martin

Staring Through a Window on a February Afternoon

The sky-line falls and rises like the tempo of a tune

Where wind stampedes, an obscure tyrant vexing tattered pine

The valley yearns for sparkle of a sun-warm afternoon

With children running barefoot ‘neath the curling merlot vine

The hillside slopes toward the sallow span of waning day

No laughing lover strolls this winter-stricken solitude

Surreal the fancy of spring’s darling apple-blossom May

Where February walks in gray, a maiden plain, subdued

The blustering battalion of sleet-snow-squall regiment

Is in sore need of furlough; we encourage its retreat

How long will Time insist on emptying its discontent

In fresh volley of vandals shod with ice upon their feet?

The doggerel of daisy day-dreams dangles daringly

Beyond the frosted window-pane against the snarling air

Are silver sun-swept seashores but fine fairy frippery?

I’ve heard spring-peepers serenade the dusk, but where, oh where?

The skyline falls and rises; what a moody madrigal

But I am not a damsel in distress nor prone to fret

The horse and rider in the sky is preordained to fall

Thus I know that its steel facade will spill its violets yet

© Janet Martin

Like a Lamb

She tiptoed in on silver scrim

Of February’s waning

While poets slept softly she crept

Beneath Time’s astral awning

The gilded wing of darling spring

Consoles the frosted tresses

Beneath night’s arch keen, moody March

Whispers of Easter dresses

The phantom skien of moment-mein
Employs its muted measure
As on the hearth of quiet earth
We greet Spring's sweet harbinger

© Janet Martin

I think March came in like a lamb; calm but very cold!

February Night Storm

He is not playful tonight; darkness reels

His venom pelts fiercely, glazing windowpanes

The silver-tipped reed of full-moon appeal

Shudders beneath his tempestuous refrains

No corner is spared of his seething rage

Growling he ravages, savage and grim

Like a hungry beast released from his cage

He lunges, snarling at the stark, naked limb

Spilling his scathing ice-shard repertoire

Enhancing the comfort of kind, kindled fire

Fly, little bird, to your hole in the tree

Hop, little bunny to thickets and brush

We will not challenge his cold mutiny

Stripping the fell of its calm, full-moon hush

Rock-a-bye girlie and sleep little man

This cold scavenger cannot reach your cot

Pull up those covers as snug as you can

Dream of sand-castles and for-get-me-not

For somewhere beneath earth’s frozen facade

Trembles the surge of spring’s bloom-dappled sod

Then let him vent, howling outside the door

Splattering dregs of his fury, snow-spun

Though now they humor his bold, burlesque roar

Soon they will melt in the kiss of the sun

Rattle the sashes and whimpering trees

Spew frozen threats from your blue-puckered mouth

Oh, harbinger of fragrant, buxom breeze

You cannot conquer the streams from the south

Somewhere the bondage of spring’s petal-fray

Will softly unravel and nudge you away

© Janet Martin

The windows are glazed in his temperamental dally between snow and rain.

It will be snow by morning. I can sleep now:) I wrote this while I was waiting for my daughter to get home from work. She arrived, (midnight) very happy to be here, the roads are heavy with the snow that fell before the rain/snow mix. The fire crackles, the wood-pile is replenished, we are warm and have so much to be thankful for. I pray everyone is warm, safe and dry tonight.

Goodnight.

  

February Fantasies

It would be fine to wander and squander

A dew-drenched, daisy-strewn dazzling new day

And fritter the glitter of freshly-strung moments

Into the nonchalant meadows of May

It would be grand to guilt-freely amble

Through giddy violet-for-get-me-not dell

Heedless of hours wielding a grim gavel

Over the vagrant and fragrant spring swell

It would be splendid to soak in sun-puddles

Teased by the zephyr of sassy-sweet mouth

Splashed with potion wrought by April’s ocean

Dancing with vagabond winds from the south

It would be sweet to languish in bare feet

Appeasing and pleasing thought’s wanderlust

With treasure of pleasure in middle-May measure

Teasing our traipsing through daydreams of dust

It would be thrilling if moments were willing

To pause in the spilling of green-golden-blue flow

To dangle in spangles of spring-ribbon tangles

Or float on the froth of pink-apple-bloom snow

Somewhere the splendor of buds, buxom, tender

Startles the drifter on his footloose way

We cannot hurry winter’s fretting flurry

Every February must have its day

© Janet Martin

Winter Thaw (an edited re-post)

No gold complexion
warms the table
Only gray
 Its modest pall

cloaks the dawn

 as wind-song

falls away

 and through staid trees
tear- melodies
splatter the face of earth  

as she swallows 

drab snow-flake seas
in her gracious mouth
Gripping winds recoil and ponder
This dashing, splashing
gray array

surging from earth's south-east corner
perplexing winter's 

Stiff foray

Janet~

Mr. February

Though you may stand

Inches beneath

Your limber peers

You startle placid

Bystanders

With bully howls and jeers

And while you tug

The daylight hour

Into the twilight blue

We slip and slide

And huff and puff

Against your cheerless hue

And though you boast

The day of hearts

And chocolate-flavored bliss

We do not fall

In love with your

Icy, obnoxious kiss

For what you lack in size

Or flair

You pack in blustered punch

While we peer

Through ice-lace fretwork

And pour hot soup for lunch

© Janet Martin

The Night of Winter..............

Daylight; softly falling
Like silvery echoes
Of children calling
From frozen meadows
In a muffled past
We trace the winding footprints
Through the long, blue shadows cast
As the moan of twilight glints
Against the moody flare
Of naked arms stretched darkly
Rigid, the wooded limb and bare
Its silhouette, sketched starkly
‘Gainst an inky canvas where
The sliver of a moon reclines
On the intricate fringes
Of the raven pines
And their whisper tinges
The bare walls of the sky
In an icy splinter
The tear becoming a sigh
For the night of winter
Is a drawn-out lullaby

Janet~