That's the Way it Goes

 Describing

Beauty before feeling,

Or what's the feeling for?

Feeling before meaning,

For meaning's such a bore.

Meaning before thinking,

Lest we think an empty thought.

Thinking before wording,

Or the beauty is forgot!

Sounds of Rural Spring

This peace is silence- 

Not because of the quiet

But because of the gentleness

Of the sounds.

Sporadic kazoo-like duck-quack,

Distant whistling bird-chirp,

Wind encouraging the fence and trees,

Blackbird calls far-off.

Dark speck gnats dart high and low

Loose white duck-feathers stir and still

Pale shadows of light reflect

The lace-clouded dust-blue sky.

The intermittence of the sound

And gentleness of the sunlight

Soften the rough edges,

And after winter, we breathe.

The Climber

I am not a tin can, crushed underfoot.

I am not a dead plant, so easily snapped.

I am not an anthill, smashed unseen.

I am not a piece of trash, blowing in the wind.

I may stop - but I start again.

I may sit down - but I get back up again.

And someday I'll make it to the top.

There is no reward at the top.

The top is its own reward.

Look back down on where you've been

And wonder that you made it.

And even when you're at the bottom again

You have been to the top.

Early March

Wildflowers in this bed sleep,

Dreaming of spring.

I may never see them bloom,

They may never hear me sing.

Tomato plants in this bed sleep,

Waiting to grow.

I will never taste their fruit,

Though they'll droop ever so low.

Onion stalks in this bed sleep

Ready to wake.

They will never meet Mom's hands

Or in her cooking partake.

Someday I will start a garden

I'll see bloom.

I'll eagerly sow seeds, gladly pick its fruit- 

Soon.