Welcome to day twenty-six of our 30/30!
Do you ever feel like you’re living in some kind of alternate poetry-filled universe? No, me either. Never. Not even remotely delirious with poetry.
Your prompt today is:
Next spring I refuse to
Guidelines, if you want them:
- Posting your response is not required
- Feel free to post your response 🙂
- This is not meant to be the perfect first draft – respond without hesitation for 5-7 minutes, then keep going if you want to
- While our prompts are geared towards poetry, we welcome all kinds of artists
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QuillsEdge Press 
Spring makes uncertain appearances in the South.
By the time February arrives
many have already begun new plantings,
lawn clearings and cuttings, only
to be surprised when cold winds gust
and birdbaths freeze over,
Winter reminding us all that she is still dominant.
So we surrender to the tree shakings,
some shriveled blooms bowing in submission.
Then the sun shines so hot that again
all life greens, and Spring takes hold
from the ground up, warm earth challenging
cold winds that gust, waters that slake
and flood the emerging life.
So I refuse to be surprised next spring
when my body shakes and sneezes with life emerging
from its seasonal death.
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Pingback: #NationalPoetryMonth’16 Round-up (Day 26) | Bonespark~
Reprise
When spring comes again, I will
celebrate the new shoots, the vigor
of weeds, the persistence of the same
birds that wend their way to the same
fence rows and weathered houses.
I will know again the inevitability of
feeling the urgency to plant three
kinds of lettuce, wait with impatience
for the ideal warmth in which to nestle
okra’s round fat seeds. Will rail at the blue
grass that creeps across the rock borders
and plot an even better way to thwart
nibbling deer. Search out the perennials
and glory in their return. Come the next
spring, it will be simply rewind, replay
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I will not grieve next spring if the tulips
refuse to bloom, if their color burst is fleeting,
destroyed by a wild wind or baked by the heat
of too much sun; even if deer break through the fence,
feast on their petals, trample their green leaves.
This April they are a splendid crowd of gold,
orange, red, purple – marching like eager pilgrims
in multi-colored robes across our earthen slope.
At night cool air refreshes them, or steady rain
slakes their thirst. They march on and on,
arouse in me each dawn a thankfulness –
Still here! Still bright and buoyant!
So much joy this season’s tulips bring
that I’ve no right to grief another spring!
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lovely – thank you:)
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