Spring...on my street

Crimson branches heavy with cool drizzle
bend and touch wet grass tips, black cherries
of summer that will feed  berries and eager seeds
to golden wings and Cardinal newborns
bend in the breeze next to dogwood whites
and apple pinks. Golden forsythia finds
its early stage already beginning to fade
in the cacophony of color and birdsong

All along this island between two asphalt rivers, flowing
neighbor's cars and trucks; the remnants
of an ancient meadow still stand. Once the land
of noble tribes that lived far more in peace
with sun wind and rain, never sought to gain
control over things they could never own

Tulip poplars and Lilac stands, near Lavender
and Tulips, such comely additions, done by men;
show we have the wherewithal to blend lives
with the life of the ground.

Then, I watch a man sprinkle white poison to kill
the yellow-top Dandelions, that could be on his plate
or over his palate in a spicy wine, and he smiles
such a pleasant smile in front of his man-choking cars, SUV's
and noisy mower; a smile of satisfaction
as he kills my mood, the honey bees,
 and so much that nature gives

to bless us...

City in Spring

Rolling towards the broad avenue
in bright sun the neighborhood renews
its old pledge to see a better year than last.
So much in the past belongs to regret
and wet-eyed promises to forget and build anew;
there is a spring of the spirit too.

The tires dip into a crevice
born of winter ice seems thrice
the time winter spent  to springs short lease.
All the shivered cries, hopes for arctic release,
words etched into short term pain, polar vortex
the bane of Great Lakes still ice covered some,
as the Arctic melts away.

City in Spring, robins sing, black Squirrels-
like thugs in dark hoods- seem more intent
to breach window screens and nest in attics;
gnawing  like insatiable demon-kind
arousing expletives from little church-lady lips,
they chop the tops from her flower beds.

Yet it is spring, long awaited short-lived warmth
cold-felt memories melt in heat of a friendlier sun
and once again we think of the price of gain, and
why there is no thaw in the vicious maws of greed.
Burn, burn more oil than we could ever need, given
the green side of wind and light; so we wait still

for Spring in the City is a job that pays
all who lift the boat against the downward tide-
the tried and proved path to ruin.
It is there in our hands, hope and prosperity-
spring that is unbounded, generous and for All.

Spring when we value the things...that make new life

Eco-ku

in my dream...
green meadow breezes turn 
windmills white

ancient trees--
each passing year brings a new
smoke ring

at the old pond...
a frog jumps into the sound
of oil slicks

meadow music...
humingbirds and windmills
whirrrr