No constant lies
oft healthy life
If our heart insists.
© Sylvia Frances Chan
What if we are like the branches of a tree, devoid of leaves as winter takes its first few victims? Will we ever grow past the frozen areas entagled in our viens? Nothing in our path ever seems to thaw out completely. This thing we dare call a we...suppose it's truly just a motion of hope, stuck in perpetual winter. There is no warmth, no means of escape. It's a challenge to foresee a future that isn't fixated on the "what ifs" of winter, when logical answers are only contained in Spring.
Spring was always my favorite season. Seemingly answering all of the unspoken questions that crowded my sanity. Maybe it was the soothing feel of dew mingling across the lawn that settled the nerves of my ever running imagination. Or the simple knowledge that Spring allowed growth after the deadliest of times. Spring was for cuddling up & gliding hands. There's something peculiar about a season of comfort & familiarity, trailing a season of doubt & bitter coldness. As if Spring was the solidarity force welding my pieces together once again. Unlike Winter, Spring allowed me to leave on a whim. Caressing my mind so that it could discern my desire to visit summer.
In Grandma’s garden,
the sun has swum to the middle of the sky,
and sits amongst smudges of white.
Relaxing, its breathes heat onto the grass,
which bathes until it is crisp.
A warm breeze caresses the treetops,
their leaves gently swaying to the rhythm of July.
As the evening draws in,
the sun floats down like a deflated balloon,
and the moon rises proudly to welcome the night,
where crickets begin to chirp and chatter,
under its pearly white light.
The pebbles on the deck start to cool
after cooking in the rays of the fourteen-hour day.
The rest of the garden is patient and still
as it waits for the sun to greet it again.
In Grandma’s garden,
the sun is running late to rise,
cautiously poking its head into cloud-stained skies.
The trees, desperate for their sap not to slow,
are set alight by rebellious leaves before they undress.
A shower of crisp brown parachutes fall,
a carpet of copper awaiting them all.
Night sends up her pale crescent moon,
breathing in the smell of decay.
It spills a chilly mist over the garden,
a spell to send nature fast asleep,
getting harder each day from which to wake.
In Grandma’s garden,
the sun has overslept.
The robin’s eight o’clock call drags it from its slumber
as it trudges through the thick cloud plastered above.
Skeletons of trees stand lonely,
no leaves to cover their timbered bones.
They reach up towards the faded sun,
hiding within sombre grey skies.
Droplets of dew dangle from the grass like crystal baubles,
and before you know it, the sun is yawning once more.
The night arrives,
its icy breath crisping the grass.
The wind whistles a sheet of frost onto the garden,
as nature is left to shiver and shake.
The sun rises curiously today,
welcomed by Grandma’s garden,
proudly clothed in a robe of green.
It no longer wakes in a lonely silence,
but is instead greeted by a chorus of new life.
Bitter frost is replaced with a sweet dew,
and the soil is free to breath once more.
Drowsy flowers yawn as they come to attention,
their heads soaking up the sun’s new-born rays.
The old oak whistles to the wind’s new tune,
making the daffodils stand-up and swoon.
The sun kisses the clouds as it begins to pour,
tears of joy for Grandma’s garden,
alive and flourishing once more.
Here, just listen to this: [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LjgndGuy77o]
Lo, coffee in wee tazos as from thence
How sparrows gaily call is't? to avail
Dawn's warming light which wears Spring in betrayl
'Spite frigid airs, me chattring to Dad hence
About when buds will 'gin to peer fr'intents
Upon the distant tree; and whiles I hail
Such notions, he sez Winter's in detail
Too young yet, noting he's no hopes for sense.
I was not happy, was I? Just in tour
Seeing how that April haunts the waking view,
Likeas October did one June as twere.
Snow melted by the brief thaw's rain, these blue
Skies oddly wear an eye akin in poor
'Scuse to late March. And really, what is new?
January's thaw was ever wont to deceive even the lacklustre souls with visions of sugarplums was that?
How blue dusk fringes that wee chance t'avail
Myself of scribbling...ere we dine. Spring hence,
Despite frore winds' most cruel breath, tiptoes thence
Within these longer hours of light. Though frail
Perhaps in guise, yet O! in keen betrayl
Nor with aught joy, my very soul can sense
Its eye as if upon these wastes, til whence
Is only whether next month shall wax pale.
Yes, will ole Febry yield to April fer
All that? I feel it in my bones anew,
Half shivring to acknowledge what, as't stir?
Ah, wherefore do I shrink from May, and rue
The hope of daffodils and violets, poor
As all my ecstasies therein? Who knew?
Here is the coming of summer when the sun shines on the land and the oak tree gives forth his new green leaves
The deer run through the forest people dance to the pipe and drum all celebrate the kiss of summer who banishes winter gone
We are all one with nature as the Gods and Goddesses are with the planet that is coming into bloom with the scent of hawthorn and elder
For Mother Nature has smiled on the land in this the time of Beltane a time of new birth and happiness and a time of love and healing