by Joan McNerney
Our woods are half dressed
in fragile buds as dandelions
sprout from nowhere.
An apple blossom
stolen from the park tree at dawn
quivering with rain.
What does this cat think
strumming his tail with such ease
to fugues of Bach?
Green new leaf
fits hand perfectly—the future
lies in your palm.
All sound disappears.
The earth is calm, mild, silent….
my love has come near.
A tree waves wooing
birds who fly from branch to branch
looking for a home.
Cool bright delicate.
Let me wear it around my neck,
this soft splash of rain.
It is the white hour
between deep night and soft dawn.
Even the wren stares.
This carpet of spring
to cuddle my toes in.
Such a fragrant rug!
If I could only
save this bundle of breezes
for hot summer days.
{ 2 comments… read them below or add one }
Joan,
Thank you for your “touchstone of the present.” Like my Spring Haiku, I see the intent: You take note. Bring me there. In your case, good intentions that succeed.
Amicus poeticae,
Neal Whitman
Amicus poeticae,
Neal Whitman
Thank you so much, Neal. I appreciate your comments.