Spring has sprung and it is a welcomed sight. The warmer weather in the Northeast has brought out the early blooms of the daffodils and tulip bulbs and the trees are beginning to green up. This season is tailor-made for poets, and our “garden” is all the more beautiful because of it.  So, as long as we’re blooming beautifully, let’s give out our acknowledgements:



So much hope and beauty contained in the collective poetic mind here this week.  Once again, it was a difficult task to choose only one “bloom.”  What to do when more than one poem utterly enchants me?  *sigh*  I decided to award my Bloom to Marian J. Veverka for “Chicago Good Friday Afternoon.”  Her altogether poetic and unconventional description seized my imagination.  Oh, to write such an artistically splendid piece!

Chicago Good Friday Afternoon,  by Marian J. Veverka

A tide of traffic surges
beneath the elevated
where Spring is riding in.
She pokes her fingers down
into small damp yards
finds one skinny tree
dressed in garish pink
Shouting “I am the resurrection and the life!”
to anyone who stops
long enough to listen.



The best part of Spring is the gradual awakening of everything that had gone to “sleep” over the long Winter months. There is a newness in the air and the birth of new blooms brings a fresh outlook to the world around us. My choice of poems expresses this awakening quite exquisitely and earns my BEAUTIFUL BLOOM, This is SevenAcreSky‘s WHEN THEY SMILE.

WHEN THEY SMILE, by SevenAcreSky

I love it when the waking world
responds to me.
It hears me yawn
in my garden,
and sees my arms stretch wide,
and feels my back and neck bend back,
like a waking tree.

I love it when the morning
then yawns back,
while I inhale the steam
of a morning tea,
and visiting yesterdays plantings
I sip,
and the thirsty sky licks
its longing lips.

I’ve been longing for a drink
of greening dawn like this
all winter , when,
as deep as my dark garden dirt
I wanted things to live and grow

I watch the dancing willow;
which song sways the tree?

My sweet peas tease the trellis.
Their tendrils caress the slats,
and I, too, feel the tickle
inside of me.

I love to hear grass
weeping for gladness
with tears of dew.

And I love it when my
baby zinnias smile at me,
and I smile at them,