I had this one done early this Wednesday, and forgot to push that most important last "publish" button, alas! We are enjoying spring's final lap, in the Northwest, with dogwoods, rhododendrons and cherry blossoms. the final floats in the parade!
Spring Seminar
This go round
there has been little wind
or hail storm,
the petals hang on
as though stapled and double taped,
turning brown on the edges
as new leaves nudge them to go.
It might be the first time
I have seen such a turn-
the gutters and sidewalks
yearn like blank canvases.
The result has been pom pom blooms
as big as raspberry lemon cupcakes.
How can we not be two year olds
in this bouncy house?
How can we not sprout tails
and swing from limb to limb?
And yet I am not,
a negative comment,
radioactive in my stomach, spirals
into a what-have-I-been-doing-with-
the-last-five-years
post modern privileged malaise.
I even look the word up,
a general feeling of discomfort
whose exact cause is difficult to identify.
It is used as an example in the sentence,
“a society affected by a deep cultural malaise.”
The synonyms are melancholy, depression,
ennui (from the French, it is hateful to me)
and torpor (from Latin, to be numb or sluggish),
exactly what I feel and see.
We humans fancy control,
are disappointed if life
doesn’t deliver like Starbucks-
make mine a venti, with two pumps
and room for cream,
we get fast food to save time cooking,
while at home our remaining hours
are recorded for us on DVR.
Yet outside, trapeze artists
dressed in cloud suits
pirouette under the big top,
maples are pulling out their best fringe,
the birds are using vibrato to woo us.
I am thinking of corn seeds
after recently planting
a little paper sack of them-
a baby rattle’s worth,
some ugly as decayed teeth,
plunged an inch into darkness.
Suddenly I considered
rain and earthworms, ravens
soil and sunlight.
There are teachers all around us,
but they only hold class outside.
I am writing this
because I need to remember it myself.
These are difficult days,
for the first time in human history,
we must make an effort
to connect to our animal nature,
the place where contentedness
and wonder and acceptance
are constant.
The corn seed will be broadcast by the bushel
then stripped and concentrated,
corn syrup in various permutations
lining grocery shelves.
It will also be grown in a garden,
the silky tassels shimmering in the breeze,
the tightlight green sheath
pulled back expectantly.