spring is a-bustin’
the day dawns cloudy,
with some light spitting drizzle,
I meditate inside so that
word and idea and withdrawal from the wired
could more easily work on my psyche
than when drizzle annoys me into noticing,
by late afternoon the sky is so dry it’s clearly blue,
some bird solos a clarity of song,
mellifluous and imperative, a reality to notice,
the wind has gone away
but for a mild breeze from the south,
the cherry trees are filled with white blossoms,
who hope that sour, intense, sweet fruit are in their future,
the blueberry bushes parallel that blossoming,
I check the bluebird house in the morning:
5 perfect blue eggs await the sitting,
a sitting I think is happening by late afternoon,
as a male bluebird flies out of the lumbered house,
I water the garden of the first tomatoes, sugar snap peas, and lettuce,
plant the first half dozen basil,
note the first potato leaves breaking above the soil,
ready the way for Native American pumpkins
to claim their third of the garden,
the oak trees meet the clear light of the setting sun
with a light brown exuberance of growth,
as I head into supper more birds comment on the day,
spring is ready to bust wide open.
by Henry H. Walker
April 9, ‘18
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