UNTITLED SPRING POEM
Follow a lane, through the brush and trees'
Green and growing branches, with the humid breeze.
Now find this cabin built of wood
In the grave of a former holy grove
Where once a cove of oak trees stood.
Around, in a grass-and-flower-strewn clearing,
Where once there had been no human hearing,
The birds singing as through green leaves they fly,
To hanging branches dangling low
Outside the window of the bedroom where we lie.
Our cabin is three rooms, six windows made of glass,
Walls of timber from the neighboring pass.
And standing guard over my only treasure - She
Who makes a prince of a soul this poor -
There stands a door that was once an old oak tree.
The air is cotton-thick, and soon swells damp.
She crosses the room to light a lamp
As the sun fades into a dark and thwarted moon.
Now comes an angry rumbling just beyond hearing,
To cleave the clearing; a storm coming soon.
Now arrives a soft, persistent rain,
Tip-tip-tapping with its fingernail upon the pane.
And knocking upon the cabin door;
That stalwart knight made of massive wood,
Of oak that once stood guard over the forest floor.
The air turns thicker, starts to swelter,
Birds quit singing, fly to shelter,
The wind through the hissing forest prowls
Like a hungry wolf on its hunting paws,
Throws open its foaming jaws - and howls.
We huddle beneath this blanket hand in hand,
As the rain's angry fists pound the land.
Glass windows with the wind are humming,
And singing with a scared refrain.
The tattoo of the rain on the wood roof drumming.
The window glass screams as it takes a lashing
From angry leaves sharp and slashing.
The loud guns of thunder with a smoking crack,
The loud guns of thunder with a god's light flashing
A pine tree crashing to die upon its back.
And in reply, the wind gives a raging moan,
Trees scratch with bare branches of bone,
Like demons to drag us to the depths of hell.
Demons with clashing, desperate hands,
But still the oak door stands - a lone and lonely sentinel.
Pine sap flows into the ground like blood,
Angry fists punching into the mud.
And grab these wooden walls, begin to shaking,
Now come to collect what they have lost,
Thunder tossed will now be taking.
The drumming and the thunder and the wind a' shrieking,
And in this sanctuary no space for speaking.
These walls wrenched by mighty hands.
But through this bloody banshee call,
And through it all, and through it all, the oak door stands.
And we, under our blanket, sit afraid,
Until the howls and the drumming and the fury fade,
Until a ray of sun peeks through the glass,
And the wind's fierce pounding fades to patter
And the birds chatter as they, flitting, pass.
Follow a lane, through the brush and trees'
Green and growing branches, with the humid breeze.
Now find this cabin built of wood
In the grave of a former holy grove
Where once a cove of oak trees stood.
Around, in a grass-and-flower-strewn clearing,
Where once there had been no human hearing,
The birds singing as through green leaves they fly,
To hanging branches dangling low
Outside the window of the bedroom where we lie.
Our cabin is three rooms, six windows made of glass,
Walls of timber from the neighboring pass.
And standing guard over my only treasure - She
Who makes a prince of a soul this poor -
There stands a door that was once an old oak tree.
The air is cotton-thick, and soon swells damp.
She crosses the room to light a lamp
As the sun fades into a dark and thwarted moon.
Now comes an angry rumbling just beyond hearing,
To cleave the clearing; a storm coming soon.
Now arrives a soft, persistent rain,
Tip-tip-tapping with its fingernail upon the pane.
And knocking upon the cabin door;
That stalwart knight made of massive wood,
Of oak that once stood guard over the forest floor.
The air turns thicker, starts to swelter,
Birds quit singing, fly to shelter,
The wind through the hissing forest prowls
Like a hungry wolf on its hunting paws,
Throws open its foaming jaws - and howls.
We huddle beneath this blanket hand in hand,
As the rain's angry fists pound the land.
Glass windows with the wind are humming,
And singing with a scared refrain.
The tattoo of the rain on the wood roof drumming.
The window glass screams as it takes a lashing
From angry leaves sharp and slashing.
The loud guns of thunder with a smoking crack,
The loud guns of thunder with a god's light flashing
A pine tree crashing to die upon its back.
And in reply, the wind gives a raging moan,
Trees scratch with bare branches of bone,
Like demons to drag us to the depths of hell.
Demons with clashing, desperate hands,
But still the oak door stands - a lone and lonely sentinel.
Pine sap flows into the ground like blood,
Angry fists punching into the mud.
And grab these wooden walls, begin to shaking,
Now come to collect what they have lost,
Thunder tossed will now be taking.
The drumming and the thunder and the wind a' shrieking,
And in this sanctuary no space for speaking.
These walls wrenched by mighty hands.
But through this bloody banshee call,
And through it all, and through it all, the oak door stands.
And we, under our blanket, sit afraid,
Until the howls and the drumming and the fury fade,
Until a ray of sun peeks through the glass,
And the wind's fierce pounding fades to patter
And the birds chatter as they, flitting, pass.