Primal
Jan 24 2024
A false spring.
The midwinter thaw
that happens every season
went on and on,
until the snow softened
subsided
retreated,
the ground thawed,
and even the first green shoots
of flowers appeared;
hardy trilliums,
early crocuses,
unlikely looking snowdrops
bowing their delicate heads.
They poked up like soldiers
peeking over the parapets
to see if the siege-machines had left.
Who knew
nature could so easily be fooled?
That the life force
was so powerful,
the drive to grow
so primal?
That a killer frost
was worth the risk?
We were out as well,
wearing T-shirts and gumboots
and blinking in the sun.
In the fever of spring
feeling our own life force swell.
The earthy scent
of freshly thawed soil.
Our colour high
blood warm.
And as happens every spring
the primal drive
that can't be helped;
turning our minds turning to love
and bodies to lust,
judgment gone to hell.
As I've said many times, I have no idea where a poem go. I feel like a stenographer, simply taking dictation.
An image appears, a sentence or word catches my fancy, or some vague concept demands to be explored, and then it's all just riffing: forming my stream of consciousness into something reasonably coherent.
Although the sound often precedes the thought. It comes to me in sound. Like a singer songwriter who composes the music before the lyrics.
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