Spring is Buried–Haibun

Spring is buried now

tender buds sway in the wind—

sun hides behind clouds

Today, the vernal equinox, snow dances lightly in the air, turning to large, white flakes that cover the grass and cars. Soon, sleet pounds against the windows. The wind blows in angry gusts—winter rages at having to let spring back into the world.  I think of how tomorrow children will wake to a silent world of white. They will happily build snowmen and make snow angels, while the daffodils and tulips wait for the sun to return, and for the snow to melt to nourish their roots.

Soon, I think, soon. . .


Persephone comes

skipping from the underworld—

the light lingers now








This haibun is for Frank’s haikai challenge. He asks us to write about the spring equinox. This is also for Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday Challenge, using synonyms for joy and fury.

We may get a foot of snow tomorrow.




Assume the Joy

Assume the world’s full of joy,

not hate,

stare at birds,

wonder at our fate

and if we’ll mind what happens after–

“the late”

they’ll call us,

if not the great–

but we’ll be gone,

beings that are not immortal

(unless time folds–perhaps a portal?)

and so, we shouldn’t hesitate

just assume the joy

of stars and earth

of moons that hum with charming mirth

then laugh, my dear–

no, stop, wait


there–the robin on the garden gate


I needed a poetry break this afternoon!

This is for Secret Keeper’s Challenge.

The prompt words were: Assume/Mind/Late/Being/Stare



Spots of Color Bloomed

Spots of color bloomed,

there in the mist,

pink and red, surrounded by green

with glistening sheen

life burgeoning, not yet entombed

but solidly rooted,

perfectly suited

(like us)

to withstand the rain–

again and again–

but then to greet the sun,

when at last, it comes

drifting down

crowning the day on floating rays

lighting the wings of birds in flight

whisking away the gloom

(the scent of petrichor lingers)

making color, life, and love bloom



My husband planted these yesterday between rain showers. It made me happy when I looked out the window.

For those keeping track,  I needed to take a poetry break.  🙂

For Earth, For Earth Day: NaPoWriMo




Sweet spring shines

come flower,

bird, and bee,

squirrel over tree,

a secret song,

pure poetry

must grow, thrive

at peace, but knowing

if my blue earth, a sanctuary

is soon through,

we blossom, berry, bough, follow, too

from sacred garden to prairie brown,

how eden leaves




By NASA/Apollo 17 crew; taken by either Harrison Schmitt or Ron Evans [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Day 22, NaPoWriMo.  The Magnetic Poetry Oracle was true to the prompt. She gave me an Earth Day Georgic Verse.

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My Love is Coming Home: NaPoWriMo

The flowers bloom upon the hill

and saplings perch beside the rill,

the robin sings his cheery trill,

my love is coming home


The sunlight streams through dappled trees,

chickadee whistles his happy reprise,

baby deer frolics in the gentle breeze,

my love is coming home


From distant shores will come a box

carried across the sea and over rocks,

you’ll rest amid the hollyhocks,

my love is coming home


The drum will play a rat tat tat,

the bugle’s Last Post after that,

somber faces and mourning hats,

my love is coming home


We should have danced a wedding tune,

but you have left me much too soon,

someday we’ll waltz beneath the moon,

my love is coming home


Charles Courtney Curran,” Hollyhocks and Sunlight,” 1902 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

This is for NaPoWriMo, Day 8. The prompt was repetition.





Flowers and Cries: NaPoWriMo

I can’t ask where have all the flowers gone,

they’re here for now,

waiting patiently through April showers,

lifting their faces to the sun

like baby chicks in the nest

trusting their parents to feed them,

trusting there is food,

we open the windows to spring breezes,

to birdsong

but the wind sighs

carries the cries,

the children who have died


We watch the rain fall,

(blood in the puddles)

the angel of death does not pass over,

but stops, rests awhile,

heedless of petty differences,

all are mortal,

we open our windows

no birdsong,

only twittering and tweets,

as the rooster puffs his chest,


it is spring,

but winter darkness falls,

the air carries a foul odor,

gas and genocide,

and the wind sighs

carries the cries

the children who have died


My friend says it’s a good day to cook

and so, I make some soup

bake some bread,

chop and stir and knead,

there is food for us,

outside, there are flowers still,

but then I sigh

I hear the cries,

the children who have died




NaPoWriMo, Day 7.  I’m off prompt today.





Song and Dance: A Quadrille

Daffodils smile,

dance awhile,

giggle when tickled by the breeze,


they bask in light,

their faces bright,

listen to the robins sing,

melodies of spring,

flowery laughs join birdsong,

a sing-a-along

till day is gone, all unspun,

the moon rises with a hum




This is for dVerse .  The Quadrille Monday prompt from De Jackson (aka WhimsyGizmo) is “giggle.” (Doesn’t the word giggle make you giggle?) This photo is from a few years ago. Our daffodils haven’t bloomed yet, but they are starting to come up. They make me happy. A quadrille is a poem of 44 words; it is also a dance.




A Final Bloom Before the Cold

Monday Morning Musings:

“It was a happy thought to bring 
To the dark season’s frost and rime 
This painted memory of spring, 
This dream of summertime. “

–John Greenleaf Whittier, “Flowers in Winter”



A surprising last bloom of the geranium in November.


A final bloom,

flowers that were vibrant red

fragrant in the summer heat,

now scentless,

a different hue against autumn’s rusts and gold,

in the cold,

a final bloom,

tired, but heroic,

a reminder,

a last hurrah,

as the nights grow longer

and we must grow stronger,

winter is coming.


The skies darken and the winds howl,

we huddle under blankets,

fill the house with the scents of cinnamon, apples, pumpkin,

and freshly baked bread,


Apples cooking for Thanksgiving applesauce



Artisan-style bread to eat with our soup


I think of tea and oranges that come all the way from China,

we eat, sustaining ourselves with hearty soup, a hunk of cheese,

a glass of wine and Netflix,

we smile and dance with the opening credits,

wondering where life is headed,

winter is coming.


We go to see Loving

a quiet, unassuming film

about the landmark decision,

Loving v. Virginia,

we watch and listen

two ordinary people,

black and white,

they want to marry, not fight,

but their marriage a crime under Virginia law.

I want to scream at the hypocrisy

the result of the slavocracy

of the state of Virginia, how

centuries of miscegenation,

and the degradation

the rape of black women,

and the suffering of families,

and the telling of lies.

But the heart is not silenced

And love still sings.

I cry at the end,

happy with the result that justice brings,

that our system worked then,

(and I think, too, more money to the ACLU.)


We discuss the movie over vegetable pakoras,

vegetable soup, naan

yellow dal tarka

and other delights,

a buffet,

and we eat too much,

but they’re all so delicious,

these Indian dishes,

warm and comforting on this cold day

when we sense that winter is coming.


Autumn leaves against the wind-swept clouds


Winter is coming

will we see another bloom?

The bloodred blossoms of civil rights

fading, turning to dust

causes forgotten, results of long fights,

gone with civility,

(utter imbecility)

social contracts, death of the Great Experiment,

But still we know,

that love is love,

and we must shout what’s in our hearts,

Ask not what you can do for your country

Ask not for whom the bell tolls

It tolls for you and me,

good or evil

we are stronger together,

winter is coming.


We laugh and talk


Well, life must go on

even when the bloom is gone

even in winter.

From within the darkness

we light the candles

to illuminate the room

to cast the shadows to the corners,

amidst the cold,

amidst the gloom,

we seek warmth

and offer shelter

when the winter comes.


We prepare for the long winter,

not to be seduced by the stark beauty of the snow

but noticing the cracks in the ice.

The last bloom, as autumn turns to winter,

and we remember spring

a distant, buried memory,

we remember and hope

for new blooms

after the winter comes—

and goes

and spring returns.


We saw the movie, Loving.


Time for blankets–it’s going to be a long winter.