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Too wedded to winter,
not expecting the warm
one breath of wind
from your quarter,
and I could hear
the first solid crack,
knew the river would flow
not today,
not tomorrow,
but ah—soon.
Just a day or two
from pussywillow down,
crocus crouched
with johnny jump up impatience,
I did not beckon for Spring,
did not reckon she would come
despite the need for her,
certain she would dally in Paris,
romp in Rome,
anything but arrive
sans fanfare and flounce,
no thought to her missing baggage.
I had no welcome,
no fancy tea laid on,
so tired inside
that simply raising my arms
seemed too huge a thing.
But Madame Equinox
simply arrived,
put on the kettle,
and blew her breath
through my house,
making herself at home
as if she knew
how much I wished
for an end to cold bitter,
dusting the last leaves
of a forgotten fall
with pollen confetti,
to leave her card,
the sort of RSVP
I can never ignore.
©2007, Lisa Shields
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I needed to be out
In the same spring bring breeze
that kicked the Stannard chime into overdrive,
and lifted the skirt of every tree with petals,
so I could brush loose ashes and cobwebs,
blow loose a few lost dreams
and learn to breath as if
my ribs were not broken again.
So away I went, two wheeling—
dogwood, forsythia, stubborn azaleas,
and it felt good to watch the ground
vanish beneath the spinning wheels,
felt grand to be with a wind on my back.
I had to pause under that tree,
alive with pink flowers
smelling like some rare spice,
had to breathe it in a moment
A rascal wind tugged hard the branches
till I was standing in the snow
of pink petals—lips, eyes, hair
all properly confettie-d.
And then dear one,
I saw your smile in my mind’s eye—
this too old flower child
dressed again in petals, laughing—
and just waiting for the second
you realized that you simply
had to kiss me again.
©2008, Lisa Shields
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