something for the season: a sonnet of sorts

Growth

We’ve gathered autumn acorns for the vase

We’ll fill with them—an ornament to place

On the tabletop.

We rest beneath the oak, our chill-stung lungs

Recuperating; down from knuckled rungs,

A brown leaf tumbles.

Corinne begins to pluck the woody caps

From their nutshells. Her cousin Lily slaps

The offending hand;

She says, Those perfect acorns . . . now they’re spoiled.

Corinne begins to cry; her humus-soiled

Fingers streak her face.

The sun grows red. The earth grows cold

Against our jeans. The year grows old.

happy pleasantness

The sweet gums and oaks are back in green garb. The warmth of the day brings summer to mind, only one should be so lucky for 80 degrees in July. Spring has a way of fooling us, Ether. Against the sparseness of winter, on the heels of freezing rains, the spring tells a story we’re all too ready to believe—life is here to stay. How eager to forget, we are. How certain the birds will never leave.

Because how slow go the dog days of summer, how molasses stuck the dying days of fall, how lumbering the trudge of wet winter, so why not how lasting the verdure April? Haven’t we earned it? Haven’t we suffered enough? Mother Nature’s entitlement plan, yes? No. Pleasantness is always on loan from hardship. Borrowed in March quadruply compounded come June. Ether, in this regard, you’ve got it good. I imagine in the Nothingworld seasons are only discernible by the preponderance of merchandise being bought and sold over the optics and waves--each quarter measured in seasonal wares. Swimsuits, Rubber masks, ear muffs, and egg coloring kits, respectively.

On terra firma, Ether, we learn our lessons sweating, shivering, and sodden. Gritting and grinding. Fitful and weary. And then comes spring. And life is here to stay. The birds won't go away. So when we dance in May, let all the children play.

Because what else is there to do? Worry over the pavement that soon will scorch our bare feet? Fretfully while the hours until ghouls and goblins prowl? Bewail the distant dearth of greenness?

Nah. Spring is here to stay. If only for today.

Happy pleasantness, Ether. I wish you could see cardinals.