From Tennyson to Wordsworth, poets have long been inspired by the season of new beginnings. It’s a metaphor for light and hope after a cold and dark season. For National Poetry Month, five contributing poets share a gift of spring verse for readers. “Our world is … now in a time of upheaval,” says contributor Andrew Armstrong. Can poetry be a refuge? “Not just a refuge,” he says, “but sure and sound ground on which to stand in tempestuous times.”
Turning
Imperceptible, the subtle shift; in still bare woods
the oak leaf clings, rattles in March winds that tear
apart the clouds with jagged teeth to send them,
frightened sheep, scurrying across the heavens.Seasons turn, will always turn, the baby crawls,
walks, skips, becomes a man. At last released,
the oak leaf falls, makes room for what comes
next. Rain softens soil, the snowdrop, shy, appears.Each day an ending and beginning. Birdsong
quickens, and here, atop the Christmas wreath
still hanging by the red front door, a wren’s nest
with a single egg shimmers, a translucent pearl.
– Sarah Rossiter
Why We Wrote This
During times of uncertainty and tribulation, the arts can offer solace and hope. Here, five writers offer a bouquet of poetry to welcome spring, a season of light and promise.
April Snow
Daybreak wakes to
Shrouds of white,
Snow sweeps green
Shoots, wind flails
Trees: Bear witness,
Time is out of joint,
The world erupts,
Flood, famine, war.Yet, this dark dawn,
Birds flock the feeder,
Sun-bright goldfinch,
Bluebirds dazzle, angelic
Host, defiant, daring,
Winged sparks of hope
Cast off despair.
– Sarah Rossiter
Duck’s Nest
Cattails and rushes grow waist high
Where a pipe drains water off the hill
And here a duck has made her nest
Six brown eggs in a bed of twigs,
More artful than any window display,
More precious than a golden egg
Laid by a golden goose.
The duck frets, fearing my intentions;
I retreat, respecting her privacy
But would like to have asked,
What makes you do this every spring?
Conscious choice, wise necessity?
A series of quacks, open to interpretation,
Would necessarily be her reply
Yet the impulse to create new life
Suggests a purpose greater than our own,
A hurtling toward some end
Of which we are a part.
– Andrew Armstrong
Breakthrough
Wish we were daffodil tough
Or nervy as the crocuses planted
To encircle the forked white birch,
Pushing aside the pressing soil layers.
Green blades stretching upward, even
As snow clouds bunch above April’s
Bare trees.
Early on, they begin accepting
The light, before sun’s full warmth
Reaches the roots. This undaunted return
Faces the freeze coming tonight.
Imagine if we could mimic this renewal,
Weed out our differences and nourish.
Kindness fosters growth and flowers
With rugged color joyously new.
– Tom Husson
Spring’s Terms
The mare shakes winter from her coat,
tail flicking off the last dull strands of cold.
Beyond the paddock, creek water runs fast,
hurrying to swell the pond where geese
stake their claim, loud as lawyers.The garden’s a contract written in green,
snap peas curling their tendrils
into the fine print of April,
potatoes pressing root-to-clause
beneath loamy punctuation.In the pasture, the foal bows her knees,
testing the earth’s firm handshake,
spring’s promise renewed
in the stretch of her legs –
a motion both fresh and familiar.By the barn, you call out once
and the mare comes, easy as breath.
No need for reins or reason today –
just the warm consent of sun on skin,
just the joy of open ground.
– Jeffery Allen Tobin
The generosity of mud puddles
They cover pebbles, erase chipmunk paw prints,
absorb acorns, and give untreed leaves
a place to float before sinking.
Puddles offer splash landing-pads
to any child in flight;
display their dreams
through windows into the world above:
limbs and last leaves of sumac and hickory,
a passing black-capped chickadee,
and – down in the far blue –
a blouse of cloud.Mud puddles are courageous, too,
when returning the unblinking, burning
gaze of the sky’s white eye.
– Scott Thompson
