Spring

[saw]

even though
my outer mind knows
every poem about spring
has already been written
I find my hand reaching
for a pen, and I really can't
prevent these creeping fingers
from stalking the nearest
writing implement when the heart-light
in my astounded eyes has peered
into those little lavender crocus heads,
sitting together in a small circle
like baby birds bouncing in their nests
their lemon-yellow stigma tongues
waving in the soft warm wind, inaudible
peeps, cries of hunger in my head
desperate avian siblings waiting for mama
to regurgitate their morning breakfast

but why write about this
shouldn't it be sufficient to absorb
the masters and mistresses that have graced,
given glory to the spirit in that space between
vernal equinox and summer solstice, yet still
I reach, staring at the pen in my puppet hand
coming to terms I guess, that I have no more
chance of putting a fresh spin on this annual
seduction, than I do resisting
the inspiration to try

[the mingo]

[Christopher T. George]

Hi saw

A well-written evocation of and reaction to Spring, and the poet struggling as ever to say something now. Enjoyed! The poem has a Frank O'Hara relaxed tone which serves you well.

Keep up the good work!

Best regards

Chris

[dadio]

Good poem. Enjoyed.