The trees held off longer
than the daffodils
buds anxious to burst
bulging with the lingering
polar vortex induced
(scary new weather channel term,
a syntax of dread deniers reject)
delay, burgeoning
(old word, comforting)
of Spring insistent
in its taken for granted reliability
but the yellow trumpets could not wait
sprung from deep mulch
on ancient cue
only to bow and bow to late snow
glittering in pre-dawn street lamps
by development, nesting
among the flowers
stoic periscope of neck
still in the wind
not just stubborn, on guard
grounded in its duty to protect
a thing to be admired
(“it ain’t natural” – refuge of the
ignorant believing in blunt force)
adaptation the skill
survivors display and teach
when the arrogance of dominance
lets loose waves
of unintended consequence
ah! changeable weather
it did clear, it did warm a bit
and the gander in the lead
in considerate slow motion stroll
parades the grey poupon goslings
up the driveway toward
last remnants of the wild back lot
little feet all blurry in their scurry
one behind the goose trailing
headlong rush to stay close
just barely managing it …
let try matter more than speed)
leave bread upon the grass
among weeds beginning to flower
an offering to feed the inheritors
of what we’ve done
without the thing most “natural”
to human kind: thinking.
(Marthe G. Walsh)
Marthe's play with the meaning of words in the poem is very fine.
Pictures from here, here, and here.
