Isn't Spring Simply Lovely?

...slowly but surely the melt is happening 

...because we are still waiting for the first bloom of green-gold the writer drew from experience of Past spring to dream of Spring-future;-)

Spring melts svelte fences, spreads a mat of lilting laughter where 

Earth wore the shroud of loud, proud winter's wild and frigid flare

We ride the wide wave of brave daydreams spawned by yawns blue-gold

Oh, isn't spring simply a lovely blessing to behold?

I've never heard a tree complain when it is stripped of leaf

but it stands bold and stalwart through cold rain and snow; Belief

buoys the body because bud, like wisdom soft unfolds

within the waiting; isn't spring lovely in greens and golds?

In the city, spring is pretty where the gritty boulevard

Wears blushing trees like emerald bracelets on a weathered arm

And countryside is like a bride preparing for her groom

in her best dress; isn't spring simply stunning in first-bloom?

Spring doffs the dowdy hill and rill then spills in daffodil

it 'considers the lilies', clothing earth in apparel

unrivaled in its finery; a lithesome loom weaving

fresh fabric; isn't spring simply a lovely, lovely thing?

Janet

Victoria and I watched the morning giggle in pink puddles and gold looking-glasses, somehow its giddiness seeped into our souls...

I was trying to refrain from writing another spring poem but every so often Cyndy shares a poem or an excerpt of a poem that makes me want to stand on my chair and cheer LOUDLY. this is such a poem...(while I don't live in the west, I hear many 'west' stories from hubby who travels there every week... ) and after reading it my pen could not resist...here is the poem Cyndy linked to in full.

Open Range

Western land was made for those
Who like land wild and free,
For cattle, deer, and buffalo,
For antelope and me;
For those who like a land the way
That it was made by God
Before men thought they could improve
By plowing up the sod.

I want the rivers running clean,
I want a clear, blue sky,
A place to draw a good, deep breath
And live, before I die.
I want the sage, I want the grass,
I want the curlew's call,
And I don't want just half a loaf,—
I've got to have it all.

These cities seem to ear me down
And I can't stand their roar,
They make me have the itching foot
To get back West once more.
I hate the milling herds in town
With all their soot and grime,
I wouldn't trade a western trail
For Broadway any time.

Just give me country big and wide
With benchland, hills and breaks,
With coulees, cactus, buttes and range,
With creeks, and mountain lakes,
Until I cross the Great Divide,
Then, God, forgive each sin
And turn me loose on my cayuse
But please don't fence me in.

by Robert H. Fletcher, from Corral Dust, 1936 edition

 

Stan Howe pointed out that "ear" in the line "These cities seem to ear me down" is correct. He writes, "To 'ear' an animal down is to grab him by the ear and either pull him down or twist his ear until he goes down on his knees and can be pulled over on his side. It works better with cows than horses but can be done with horses, too.  Bob knew exactly what he was writing. In cowboy parlance if something is earing you down, it is wearing on you and will finally get you down.  That is what is happening in the poem, the city is earing him down." 

Hold To the Hand That Holds Us

For I am the LORD your God who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, Do not fear; I will help you. Isa.41:13

Hold to the hand that holds the sand that trickles through time’s glass

The Keeper of His promises knows what will come to pass

Then should the fight be hard and night reach far into the day

Still, hold the hand that holds us in each untold come-what-may

Hold to the hand that holds the land and sea in folds of blue

He parts the waters of the deep so that we may pass through

And should the way that he allows seem foreign to our want

Still, hold the hand that holds us close where fear and worry taunt

Hold to the hand that will not fail though oft it seems, we must

Yet, if we never failed then would we ever truly trust?

His hands are rich with mercy, granting courage for this strife

Hold to the hand that holds us in the gray and gold of life

Hold to the hand that holds the plans for every one of us

And wore the nails and bore the cross for our sin; Jesus

Hold to His hand, He understands what we can never know

Hold to the hand that holds us near and never lets us go

© Janet Martin

A Language We Never Forget

 Robins return in spite of the snow...c'mon winter, give it a rest already!! yes, it's snowing...

Your language, easy to relearn

With the return of robin-song

And plush rush of warm rain upon

The plot of forget-me-not berm

Fills us with fuss of green-leaf trees

And wave-washed leas, and sun-bronzed feet

Though windows frame the dull retreat

Of winter’s ragged remnant fleece

Your language, soft as silk that flows

Around our toes from skeins aloft

Lavishes winter-weary croft

With vision of lilac and rose

That grows where now the lagging rogue

Has torn a hole into his sack

And feathers fall, a small attack

Mustered against unflustered brogue

…of you, sweet, sanguine dialect

Of stream gold-flecked, of daffodil

And violet and daisy hill

That none but you can resurrect

With words, the sweetest ever heard

Of anthems stirred that long have slept

While winter its chill vigil kept

Still you spill whispers, undeterred

© Janet Martin

Of Unromantic Mondays Mornings...

 ...from Shirley, by Charlotte Brontë

I had to think of this line; 'something as unromantic as a Monday morning' as I purveyed week-end aftermath...

How little we full know

Of what we think we do

Though hindsight may perhaps bestow

A broader point of view

We cannot truly tell

What sighs beneath the skin

Of Monday morning fare-thee-well

Until we meet again

…and though we think we stand

Where we have stood before

As Monday reaches out her hand

And draws ajar her door

...and though we recognize

The vintage in her flask

And even if we shut our eyes

We could perform her task

Still, Time’s week-to-week path

As by God’s grace we go

Is strewn with tell-tale aftermath

Of how little we know

 

...yet,of one thing I'm sure

Though Unknown weighs time’s table

‘I know in whom I have believed

And know that He is able’

© Janet Martin

It was a busy, Maple-flavored week-end... where we enjoyed lots of treats!

from the Elmira Maple Syrup Festival...frigid temperatures did not deter the crowds.

Where Verge and Dirge Merge...

 Thinking of/praying for the Tippett family today as they hold a memorial service for Kara.

In this fast-forward arrangement of hours

No one can see the full bloom its bud holds

Even in gathering fistfuls of flowers

Verge and dirge merge where a lifetime unfolds

Silhouette-sketches etched on yon horizon

Presses new pages to sunrise-sunset

Stunning the wanderer pausing to listen

Hello and farewell, fine-tuned minuet

Time never seems at a loss for fresh kisses

It never dulls its greeting of Today

…soon unknown is that which thought reminisces

Fresh-planted memories on life’s pathway

Come, before Nevermore rushes, a breaker

Over this seemingly ongoing Thing

Time, at the mercy of Giver and Taker

Ceases by one Awesome cutting of string

© Janet Martin

Time is a garden on the threshold of Forever...