This week’s Poetry Friday is hosted by Rebecca Herzog at Sloth Reads
As this first week of March ends, most of our snow and ice have melted away. For the last two evenings, I’ve seen geese fly up our valley and continue on north. My garden beds have emerged, and I can see where I need to clear and weed when the days get just a bit warmer. We are entering that just-before-the greening time, when the landscape around seems to be breathing gently, getting ready to stretch and awake fully again. March seems to have come in like a lamb this year…but is welcome, never the less.
Cantata for Woodland and Orchestra by Ralph Murre
There, just there — where the first cellos
of March come in, before the oboes
or the ides — there, the brooding
before budding or cranes return,
before clarion brass of calendar spring,
the thing made of maple and ice,
there, that dripping, the ripping of the long,
white garment, there, the giggling
of flutes, perennial roots waking in cold soil.
At last, a roll of timpani just
before this symphony season’s end,
a thunder of freeze unfreezing.
Cymbal crash of lightning tightening senses,
there, the tension as a hundred violins go wild,
waking your lover, waking your child.
Innuendo of greening in the plop
of that first drop of the applauding rain
and it’s over again — there’s a silence
so profound we can hear the stirring
of the deep unknown, and underground.