The weather's never as cold in Seattle as it is in New England at the beginning of spring. It's March again, the light is changing. And so, to remember this odd sonnet I wrote a thousand years ago.
Pioneers
There is a time in March
When it’s still so cold
That the ice runs hard
Out of the rocky ledge.
There, under the snow,
Green things push up,
Hardy and squat
In the dead dark cold.
Never minding the ice above their heads,
Courageous against blades of wind that fly,
Merry in the face of frozen nights
They stand, not pretty, but defiantly alive.
And in April where they stand the crocus come,
And in June, the roses.
There is a time in March
When it’s still so cold
That the ice runs hard
Out of the rocky ledge.
There, under the snow,
Green things push up,
Hardy and squat
In the dead dark cold.
Never minding the ice above their heads,
Courageous against blades of wind that fly,
Merry in the face of frozen nights
They stand, not pretty, but defiantly alive.
And in April where they stand the crocus come,
And in June, the roses.
2 comments:
Ah, Jack. I rejoice to the music in the voice of your poetry. And I'm so glad to see you writing it all down here. Thank you for giving me back my memories of spring in New England. xoxo Kate
Beautiful poem it made me think of these two quotes.
"What a joy is there in a good book, writ by some great master of thought, who breaks into beauty, as in summer the meadow into grass and dandelions and violets."
Theodore Parke
"But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling like dew upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think."
Lord Byron
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