Nocturne
a poem
Nocturne
Verdant as rebellion, all this greening’s
clawing out of the resurfacing cold snap,
the persistent spell still clinging;
we thought we had shaken free of it
but here it is once more.
Again, it is rapping on the door
to dull our senses and call us back
toward the numbing sleep
while here each morning charges
into the more that lies waiting.
Was the warmth of yesterday a dream,
or is a single nocturne all it takes
to close the door to warmer days?
In sleep, I am a restless animal
wandering beneath the leaves,
wandering the old woods of peace
to find the path back to where
one hears the laughter of the trees,
the larks in play alighting in the eaves
of this—their cathedral.
This morning with its bitter cold
cannot hold back creation—yes,
the singing lark and, yes, the foal,
though staggering, will not capitulate
to winter’s desperate hold.
We may not know much of peace
but, see? How hope still presses on?
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Lovely. As I sit and read this poem, ice and sleet are drumming on the metal roof. The horses stand inside their stalls, looking as forlorn as I feel. Fresh snow coats the mountain outside my window. Under gray skies, I cannot help admire the white wonder, even as it holds spring (temporarily) at bay.
So great. I love your intelligent use of form and fresh imagery, in this season-appropriate wonder at the guessing game we are treated to in these lengthening damp days. Thank you for sharing!