I love-love this in-between-seasons season!
The land is like a hand outstretched and waiting for its
prize
Where tawny tints and honeyed glints arouse the dreamer’s
sighs
The air is rife with scents of life beneath earth’s deadened
scrim
Where hope sails from its harbor and ignites the farmer’s
hymn
The sky is like a blue-flung paradise that none can touch
The breeze like melodies that hint at rose-gardens and such
The park is like a golden palace perched on middle-day
The yard, a postcard filled with chatter of children at play
The housewife is a-singing and a-flinging windows wide
Her mops and brooms humming a tune of simple, homespun pride
The woodland, like a chapel where the canticle of lark
Stirs from the rustiest of throats a song straight from the heart
The storehouse, overflowing with white-feather fluff and
stars
Spills rain-song from
its rafters and tips laughter from its jars
Where earth is like a table scrubbed clean of last-summer’s
mess
And readied for a banquet of flower-draped happiness
The Thing that none can barter with wrings gold from gray
ho-hum
It holds rebirth in limbo twixt what was and is to come
The land is like a hand outstretched and eager for the nod
That wakes the seed that takes its lead from the whisper of
God
© Janet Martin
