Tag Archives: spring

spring: a short poem en route to AWP

new london, ct.

the sea looks like crumpled gray silk

kicked at carelessly by mother nature

tangled in sheets

one more round of tumult and then

we will have our spring

clapboard houses perched on bluffs

dusty rusty rock and sand

surrounded by history

rain spatters like

morse code on the windows


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Springtime like a new word for “hope” and “joy”

Spring in Massachusetts is muddy and wet. It’s colder than we want it to be and frustrating. Some springs bring massive floods. Others bring even more snow. Then there are those days the smell like perfection.

You know the ones.

I start a countdown until spring every January first. For some reason, year after year, I always forget how many days until Spring (I think it might be 77) and what day Spring is on. The 20? 21? 22? It’s the 20th. At least this year it is. Does it change? I can’t be bothered to really, truly know.

I just know that I long for it to come, as soon as the clock hits midnight and the kidding brigade begins and people are popping open champagne and throwing up streamers and making noise. I am usually quietly watching television or maybe already asleep. That first kiss of the new year meant nothing to be, maybe because it never exist.

But on January first, what I have to look forward to is Spring.

I love the smell of wet earth, the slight scent of burning wood and leaves. I love watching the earth change from barren and cold to wet, warm and alive. I love the green the flowers. I always want to start a garden. Some years I manage to begin by planting tiny $1 seeds from Target into tiny $1 pots from Target. They grow, and eventually I forget or lose interest or something. 

And yet I keep trying. Or keep wanting to try. (Today I bought a tiny bucket from CVS with lavender seeds inside).

(I always forget about the bugs)

It’s almost here. It’s almost here. I can smell it. I can hear the birds starting.  I feel the warmth of sun on my cheeks. I ache for sunkissed freckles (I missed that gene) and lemonade. Fresh fresh fresh. Ladybugs, bare feet, showing off tattoos in flip flops, iced coffee, hand holding, bracelet making, daisies, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, flowly skirts, a want to wear white (And yet, that never ends well), hope. 

Hope for the flowers.

Spring come faster. I’ll photograph you and you’ll infuse me with honey lavender scented inspiration.


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Mad Girl’s Love Song by Sylvia Plath

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell’s fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan’s men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you’d return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)


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Forward, past the Ides of March–
boots pack soil and cake themselves.

Robins hop for worms again,
moist soil clinging to their beaks.

Seedlings punch their garden womb,
drink the sun, spread their roots.

There is death among us now,
it never shrinks or fades.

But right this minute,
once-hibernating bees
are warming their wings
to take to the sky

and leave their shadows on the ground,
where the reaper keeps what he sows.

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The Anti Spring

The Anti Spring

Spring is not due for another 6 months
and I’m feeling upside down
for you the world is bursting out of a
snow laden dormancy
you are breaking free
like new shoots of milk young blades of
safe to bask in pools of
winter sun

And I
I am riding the cycle
on the downturn
all curled up and dried out by the heat
of this oppressive summer
where the fires raged so fast and
so far there are barely any leaves left
to fall
I am listening for that comforting crunch
the cool bite of a
kinder wind

I am in love with the
in between seasons
the turn of expecting earth
and the obscenely sweet smell
of decay
the swell of the new buds and
the fall of the
leaves in the park
the weakening of the sun
into patterns that seem
almost human

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Genevieve’s Week 9: Crow Moon



Green candle, flicker brightly
on the third eve of Crow’s moon.
Herald the return of geese,
the steady lengthening of sky.

Prayers, stay golden soft.
Murmur liquid-thin and
watchful melodies to echo
through the rooms in this house.

The African violets stir;
the seed of this body stretches
from the navel. Now it sleeps.
Now it is alert, coiled, craving

release. Windows beckon light, and
through them infant tendrils dream of
their launch to the sun, of wrapping
themselves around the heat of waiting days.

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by | March 1, 2013 · 8:08 pm