USA

pkameen@attbi.com

Three Spring Songs

I

Mid-March - the House Wren sets up

in his old spot on the basketball backboard

and warbles. The notes that float from his throat

are so pure I am sure they will endure

whatever the day's weather.



Just a month ago, I wondered

if anything at all would survive winter:

that long, gray ship gripping

row after row of open mouths, not allowed

to make even the slightest sound.



Today the sky is a bright, brittle, blue.

It arches over the newly green treetops

like the shell of an egg, reminding me

that soon it will be my time to sing.

II

A tiny iris spikes through last night's snow.

I have waited all winter by the window

for this moment. The blossom opens:

each petal a dark velvet pool,

perfectly still, over which a man rows a boat

slowly, on his way back home.



I am suddenly beside myself, staring

at that strange, pale, gray-haired fellow

standing by the window, waiting for something.

Before the morning is out, there will be

only one of us left here, smiling

at the other, on his way back home.

III

Like fireworks freeze-framed in free-fall

three switches of forsythia sweep

in elegant arcs over the lip of the hill,

all the way down to the road.

Yesterday they were just a few thin sticks

whipping wildly in the wind.



Today, they trace an array of paths

between this dreary universe

and the one we have to get to.

Look: In just the last few hours

they have left thousands

of perfect yellow prints for us to follow.

© Copyright, Paul Kameen.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.