At Vernal equinox, the Sun crosses
over the plane of the Earth’s equator
and equalises the night and the day.
Then will the Emerald Dragon awaken
from his hibernation beneath the earth.
Rising in the jade forests of Ghizhou,
this yin creature transforms the cold, dead land.
Primal and powerful, he gathers the Qi;
melts the mountain snows to ribbons of fire
igniting the frosty hillsides to growth,
fuses each thing with verdant energy,
revives again the seed, renews the bulb,
sprouting tender shoots juice-rich and sap-full
Shy blossoms set to bloom and burst with fruit
Fresh scented breezes ruffle foliage
maiden ferns shiver with their thrill and ******
Grasses and reeds bedewed and beryline,
murmuring and humming low and dulcet,
dancing and swaying at the river’s edge.
Roots of every tree draw deep from the earth
Magnolia and Frangipani breathe
and pant out fragrant honeyed lusciousness
Spring sparks and quickens, kicks and is alive.

© M.L.Emmett

For Alice (Who used to be me)

I have believed in fairy tales
Once I walked in worlds of rosy hue
I lived in Wonderland and Counterpane
dreaming dreams I knew would all come true

Morning turns to noon day to evening all too soon
Oz can turn to ashes in just a day
Princes return as frogs to their lily pads
Wonderlands Alice is a matron growing grey

No one comes to kiss the princess as she sleeps,
Knights in shining armor ride no more.
Tinker bell is dying with no one to believe.
The Mad Hatter is laughing at the door.

The dragon is not slain but lives in glory
Roxanne always marries Christian after all
Cinderella sits forever midst the ashes
Too late for Alice the door is much to small

The Emerald City's walls are bottle glass
And reality has crushed them neath its heel
The yellow brick road leads nowhere very quickly
And Alice knows that lonely is the only thing she'll feel

oh! let alice return to Wonderland again,
Away from the mud and slime outside the looking glass.
Life is much to large without that tiny door,
And she would seek the March Hares party where time will never pass.

November dazzles
In its mundanity.
The month between the
Russet autumn and blue winter.
Skeletal leaves
on the lyre are strung
In azure frosts
in emerald forests
and encrusted with rubies.
Novembers reclines in its throne.
In a minute,
a minute or so
It will slip to salt
and December's long
bequeathed chorus will begin
And so I will savour
these few shining seconds
a little longer.