Long shadows
Bleak stinging wind
Days getting longer
Before Spring is born again.
Brave buttercups
Punching through the hoarfrost
Like little tiny swords
Determined to end Winter’s grip
With their golden fragrance
Is it too soon yet?
Winter-bit leafless trees
Frame ominous gray-darkened skies
While,
I sit on my porch wrapped,
Scarfed, gloved
And woolen capped
Watching and wondering
Will my Winter End
Before Spring’s fresh newness
Begins again?
How many seasons
Am I allowed
Before the grim vigilance
Shadows me
Still,
Like a cold winter corpse
Still. Still,
Looking up through dirt
I shall push those tiny daffodil swords
Skyward
Forcing Spring
I will, I will.
Renewed, Recycled
I will begin again.
I will.
Author’s Note: The painted picture poetic theme: Life after life, after-life life. Quiz: What happened to the narrator?
I set out to write like Sandburg, to copy his haunting inevitable rhyme-less timeless style (I succeeded in the second and forth verses). Yet some distant spirit-force that frames me, sticks a rhyme or two in and between my lines, rhyming regardless. I shall try again next time, not to rhyme nor rhythm, like Carl did. Carl in his introduction said, “Rhyme is not necessary. If words work they work.” Frost rhymed naturally. That’s more like me. Carl? Robert? Robert? Carl? In the end I shall be me, just me. You’ll see. I will.
Did you know that Carl Sandburg is credited as introducing humor into poetry. Remarkable. Unique. Historic. Refreshing. Thanks Carl!
tom tenbrunsel
Carl Sandburg Writer 2023
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