Waiting For Spring 1997

      Waiting For Spring

Will spring never come? It’s April and it’s snowing.

Snow is thick and growing, and my husband says,

“It’s only rain; a little white – but going.”

He’s just changed to summer tires. Wind is blowing.

Shame, if on his way to work his auto needed towing.

These are funny times, I think, with nothing to rely on.

Weather-wise, they really stink. The planet’s gone awry, on

Top of which the baddies are diverting steam

To search for groups to spy on.

Dear oh dear, while lying here

The snow continues piling:

Up and up and up. One could

Describe it as beguiling –

That despite the forecast.

It’s an occupation in itself, this waiting for the buds.

Proof will be: a game of golf and features about floods,

Flowers on the forest floor, fledglings for the cat,

Preferences for milky fare and victuals without fat;

Everything that comes with spring –

I’m waiting for all that.

Still, it’s April twenty-third; rising snow is right outside.

The wood stove’s full of birch and the golf clubs stand untried;

I had porridge as a snack. I needed something warm.

Spring, why are you holding back your lime-y green and floral charm?

©Waiting For Spring 97.4.23

Circling Round Nature; Our Times, Our Culture; Small Stories Book; Swedish Book;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

 

 

Collapsing In On Itself 1997

             Collapsing In On Itself
A week-dead pike on local stone wall,

Placed there or dropped by a gull

And ignored; once fresh and full

Getting meager and dull,

It’s almost the same

As the day that it came,

But the entrails have started to go.

(Are they ‘entrails’? I really don’t know.)

Of course it has innards: the roe and the gall,

A liver – I guess – and a stomach.

I think it’s a pike. It may be a perch. It isn’t a haddock.

The thing that’s essential, its cardinal what-nessIs something that shows when I pass it:

Everything rotten, or heading that way,

Falls in on itself in its ‘rot’-ness.

 

©

 

 

Collapsing In On Itself 97.8.18Circling Round Nature; Birth, Death & In Between; Nature Of & In Reality; Swedish Book;

Arlene Corwin

 

They Look With Their Age 2007

             They Look With Their Age

No one ever says when you are eighty-four,

“How beautiful you are!”

(Except for partners who still love you)

They say “Gwyn,

How beautiful you must have been

When you were young”

(Not even ‘younger’).

They don’t look with eyes,

They look with age –

The gauge so limited.

For the seen it must be obvious.

She can’t complain.

It would be rude and no one’s listening.

©They Look With Their Age 07.4.22

Birth, Death & In Between; Circling Round Nature;

Circling Round Woman; Circling Round Wrinkles;

Arlene Corwin

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