Among such landscapes, do I walk.

Breaking through the crust

Have you ever taken a detour through a tiny clump of trees?

The snowdrops and the crocuses
have hemmed the woodland track
advance word of the advent of
daffodils
whose stems are groaning, stretching

they overtake the sleeping grass
as the late frost nips impatient shoots
fooled by the lengthening sun-washed day

We dallied through the dapples
of the final twig-drawn silhouettes
the softer soil begins to yawn
and Spring teases
with her promise of warmer smiles

Bonjour mon Cher et Cher-alike.

What may today’s self seeking search unearth?
And at what time, precisely will it start?
Will we uncover anything of worth
and find a way to share it, through our art.

For I believe each poet is condemned
to set aside a section of their day
and ask themselves, “Would I be my own friend?”
or would the true me, make me walk away?

As much as we may muse on all that’s good,
there is in each a raw primeval trait.
A selfish and survival gene that could
explain how swiftly Love can turn to Hate.

But as the turmoil turns behind our mask
at least, we had the decency to ask.

My Grisebeck