Ode to Healing Spring
She skips capriciously on sodden paths,
her glance aware of winter's grizzled smirk.
Her arms flung wide in gentle warmth, she laughs
with carefree ease and quickly gets to work.
She sponges branches, cleans their crusted eyes,
infuses leaves with measured drops of light.
She kneels to soothe the huddled saplings' cries
and gently bathes the welts from winter's bite.
Her deft and charismatic fingers surge
to bandage roots, massage the aching soil.
With midwife skills she helps new shoots emerge --
their nodding blooms a tribute to her toil.
We bow to every season's trumpet call
but Spring's the greatest healer of them all.
Dear Spring, how I long
for the warmth of your touch,
for your petal-fresh vigor and grace;
I'm weary of winter --
the sound of his brawling,
the scowl on his battle-scarred face.
At times I imagine
I'm hearing your voice --
that you're tiptoeing close to my door...
but when I peek out,
it's just growly old winter
still stubbornly trying to roar.
I treasure the lilt
of your rhythmical flow
as it bounces from flower to tree;
I know that your spirit
belongs to the world
but I feel that you're dancing for me!
When shadows have lengthened,
when silence descends
and the pale curtain's finally drawn,
if you, dearest Spring,
could be holding my hand,
I'll not fear for the season beyond.
A Pocketful of Spring
As thin-strung whispers of the night
invoke the dawn, I rise from threads
of tangled dreams, and feel the swirl
of nimble fingers in the air.
Clear bursts of cheeriness exude
from chirps and warbles; dappled notes
of gold and purple float upon
a harmony of green. The scent
of warm awakenings is pearled
along each leaf and needled bough.
A healing rhythm flows, to mend
the frazzled hem of yesterday
and patch the holes in tread-worn time.
Of all the chores that nature does,
I love the sewing kit she keeps
inside a pocketful of spring.
© Laryalee Fraser