The first sign of spring up here in Canada arrives on wings, in hearts, in songs of poetry. This April/May 2015 arrived after a brutal winter, one that many around the world experienced in different ways as we cope with climate change. Here is my experience of the release of spring this year. I hope you enjoy the fresh flush on your face as much as I did.
Gifted by a Nomad
Dawn, the gatherer of empty bottles stumbles past
Humbled in her heart by her nomadic desire.
She is not from here and trails behind her wobbling, clanking cart
A wake of memories : she once had a cradle to rock
a fire to set, bread to kneed
Now she collects these empties that will provide her coins
she needs to survive what this new day will deposit into her heart.
She sees a flock of geese
arrows of intention
discussing open water on the lake:
The new-set flowers survived the night
lifting their fragrance
swelling the heart of a child
barefoot on the balcony..
She too pauses to watch the airborne patter of geese.
Morning springs to life in her watchful eye.
The landing on the lake is smooth,
like expert divers hardly a splash
though a startled carp flashes curved fin
while the Sun and the thrill of flocking
fill the heart and memory, teasing the tumbled thoughts
Of an old poet’s mind.
She straightens, brought up by the chatter of new-landed geese.
From a small paper bag she draws out two bagels,
breaks off a piece.
A morsel lands in the water
snapped up it is by the wily carp.
“And some for you.”
She sits on a rock to face the water
She has come here with bagels,
a decision to make.
She wiggles her toes.
She is filled with fire, bread
and a spring rose.
Though old she longs for more from life:
hope and sand and words that are her seabird song.
Two mounties approach,
their mounts glowing fire before a robing Sun.
Rattling snaffles and chains
“Are you all right Ma’am?”
She smiles at them, spreading new-sprung ferns to hide her toes
For vanity does not easily quit the heart of a woman.
A pair of swans scatter the clamour of geese.
On their swan-long necks they lift their heads towards her.
For these she frees the last of the bread.
“You’re not to feed the birds,” one mounty says.
Red-sleeved, they raise a hand
they trot onto the warming sand.
Not saddled with reign or bit
her soul soars
and though the stars seem to sleep
under the warm rays of golden dawn
she hears a nomadic song.
She closes her eyes.
She pulls the last morsel of bread,
cups it in her hands and bids
“Take, eat, this is for you.”
Then she opens her eyes.
The bread is gone
four coins rest
gleaming in her cupped hands.
She hears the creaking of a wobbling cart retreating.
She says “Meductic”:
it is done.
The day is begun,
swift as ship,
as hearted leap,
As the mounties and horses clear a fallen tree
the birds take their leave in a flap
like Jesus running on water
making the old poet laugh.
Not yet the hour to cross over to her grave
her old bones are glad.
The urgent nomad has gifted her.
She slips off ferns
wades into the water
skips a stone with the power
of releasing the Spring.
By Lutia Lausane, Copyright Just Peachy Productions, May 28, 2015