The Infant Season

March 17, 1995|By R. D. Apperson

A yawning nature's arms have shuddered

ripe for nurture; sinewy

to cradle this ebullient season's birth

that's just begun to Spring

from sprouts of life

who, pushing upward

find the sun a willing guide

to fish and frogs

who, just awake, will join

this rhythmic march of time.

May I behold a feathered softness?

. . . beating heart and wings

as they return to weave their mothers' nests

and sing their fathers' melodies?

. . . and spirit of 1,000 wonders;

fossil in a blade of grass,

oh, green!

. . . now let me know your meadow;

let me know of meadows past,

astound me

with your stunning glory

growing there

with all of them,

and garnished

with a bed of flora;

quilted colors in the wind . . .

fresh dusting

with the calm of nature;

taste how true

this fruitful shower

. . . how succulent and sweet

the petals of this flower . . .

drink

of such abounding beauty,

filled to brimming,

teeming; clear

may settle my impassioned waters . . .

heart to quiver,

never still.

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