I donít understand: stagnant and stale,
the bare ground grappled with grey
above, brown blistering, and everything
dead, forever. The drab dreadlocks
of willowherb wilted, withered to straw Ė
so how has this humming, hurtling green
come about, from nothing? Bluebells burst
absurdly singing, nestled in sparkles
of white weeds, whistling the bees
and already the riverís ripening smell
leaps alive with the aspen leavesí
shudder, or shiver, or shimmer Ė itís hard
to say which, or say when it started.
Donít say itís all seeds and simple fact,
that itís sap and soil and science: itís not
enough to explain that from nothing, the numinous
stalks spring up in spirals and spurs
unfold, overnight, unfeasible flowers.
There was nothing, and now Ė we are nearly wading
in green air, in golden grains.
Thanks to napowrimo.net for their prompt to write a poem about a season, using all the senses, and including a rhetorical question.
See the new NaPoWriMo poems as they pop up, complete with pics of the handwritten drafts, natter to me, and help me with titles for them, via whatever social media you call home:
All my poems on this site are now #FreeForPoets to play with, to write hybrid forms such as glosas, coupling poems, golden shovels, acrostics, centos, and erasures. Full permissions here: #FreeForPoets.