The Business of High Spring

Athens, Georgia
May 3, 2018

The soulful notes of a wood thrush cease 

when coded warnings cut the air.

A hawk swoops through the understory

culling anoles and unwary mice.

Chipmunks skitter for hidden dens. 

A buzzard wheels overhead.

Shadows and silence … 

The bustle resumes. 

Beauty is a privileged vision 

in a world hard about business –

Where nervous squirrels vie for the rights 

to your bird feeder 

and goldfinches fight for the tattered sack 

of thistle seed.

Where biting flies rise from brush 

and chiggers infest the meadows. 

They covet your blood 

for you, too, are a creature of spring. 

You are the doe and deer tick, 

the moth and the evening swallow.

You are the red-shouldered hawk 

and the unfortunate field mouse too slow to his hole.

You are the quickest chipmunk, 

the top finch on a thistle bag,

the orphaned fawn, the crippled wren,

bones and feathers pecking the dirt.

You’re the squirrel chased back to her perch 

chattering oaths and scratching fleas. 

You are the starboard hind flank flea 

and the chigger that missed her mark.

Spring is open air improv ballet. 
Its beauty is hard business.

Through the Windows of Spring

Athens, Georgia
April 14, 2018

When nights drift through open windows 

and you wake to mornings enveloped in green, 

the world is a nursery with you again 

the grass-stained boy hopping rocks 

by a slow creek that winds through 

the idylls of childhood. Or the lithe girl 

in scruffy jeans clutching a rough trunk 

halfway up the side yard plum 

which thrives on the edge of an unruly lawn. 

The aroma of onion grass spikes the air 

as you weave a bouquet of dandelions 

and skip to a medley of mockingbird tunes.

You wander once more through living woods 

where tangles of jessamine hang from the trees 

and armies of iris encircle the ponds.

You gaze in wonder at street-side weeds 

where scattered arcs of Dove’s-foot flowers 

make lavender galaxies tangled in green. 

And you rest again on a carpet of clover 

woven with tendrils of purple vetch 

in the spell of a flowering dogwood. 

You are the boy now covered in mud, 

the girl with a jessamine necklace. 

You slip through the windows of spring.