The weather may not realize it quite yet, but we are of a mind for spring. After this harsh winter, it was a long time coming. I know we may not be quite done, but it won’t hurt to get our minds right. There are signs all around us. The birds are starting to return, the buds on the trees and crocuses are beginning to show. A week has passed and we have surely been inspired by the sights, sounds and smells of spring. Spring ahead with your best seasonal poems celebrating the demise of the winter doldrums.
WALT’S SAMPLE:
NO SIGN OF SPRING
Winter holds animus, She refuses to depart to allow Spring to start. We languish in her grip, slipping on her icy floor & more snow than we’ve needed. We’ve pleaded for an end, offering to send her on the vacation of choice. But inside our heads, her voice; a sinister laugh and taunt and howling winds that haunt and toss us, to boss us into cowering here where it should be flowering. There's no sign of Spring. Come prove you don’t hate us and end your hiatus. © Copyright Walter J Wojtanik
POETIC BLOOMINGS 
” … hate us / hiatus.” Perfection!
Hesitant Seasons
hesitant seasons are
teasers of the soul
long and deliberate
unmerciful jerks
with bully intentions that do not cease
like poems without pause
or space or punctuation
un-indentedly mean
deep down to the heart
twisting longings within us
pinching desires while they rant
at our tears that pour from
imagined or remembered skies
in our eyes–
but wait…there’s rhyme in there,
somewhere,
rhyme rises, the rhyme,
and a comma appears, when light
peeks out, one morning,
and the past is silhouetted
like alliteration, and pause appears
unnecessary space,
like a brightness, like new hues
and then, with a stirring we feel,
COMES the new season,
that old friend we longed to see,
the need of a hurting heart is balmed
… alas, and sighs,
the abandonment of whys
and doubt!
A new time comes about!
© Damon Dean 2023
Love this, especially that comma appearing.
AT GETTYSBURG IN EARLY SPRING
As drops of fog meet banks of snow
I walk the battlefield. My slow
progress seems fitting here; there’s no
felt need to press for speed when cold
and damp and mud conspire to scold
the one who hurries. Why be bold
in any case? The times of old
sufficed for that, and left a chill
where life once was. Now, all is still.
The strangeness here is palpable.
The living here are rendered nil:
memorialized in stones and mounds
where people died upon these grounds;
where soldiers screamed before the sounds
of canister’s relentless rounds;
a fitting place for shrouding cloud.
I trudge the ridge where death is proud,
but then I turn to something loud:
some grackles in a clattering crowd
are skittering on the little floes
of ice bequeathed by winter’s snows.
This is no time to be morose.
I cackle in glee, in tune with those
who lift the fog and melt the snow.
Wow. Wonderful. I can sense the quiet and calm of your walk.
Spring
S uch a relief to have survived the winter
P eople out and about in the sunshine
R obins making their grand entrance
I nspiration in every tulip and daffodil
N eeding snow to go away and be
G one.
Hope springs eternal!!! Love this, Connie.
Love that final line!
Spring
Robins hop in the snow
Spring winks thrilling intent
Cast off winter coats
Breathe in balmy breezes
Incite inspiration
Like raindrops… love these lines.
Yes, especially the use of “incite.”
Sparrows Dance
on a patch of brown grass
where snow has melted.
They dance and flutter
between branches
of shrubbery outside my window
and disappear.
They dance in the sky so blue
it can make me cry
for the coming spring
where once again
life is new.
Sparrows sing
as the sun breaks
through clouds
when the sky is
an ocean of dreams.
Flowers break free
from dormant ground
as they burst forth
from seeds.
Sparrows dressed
in browns and grays
as I awaken
stir hopes
of what my life can become.
Wonderful, promise more than hints, song more than melody.
Thanks for your nice comment, Damon. I’m glad you enjoyed the poem.
Interesting: sparrows rather than robins or bluebirds. Fits early spring, I think. Wonderful.
Thanks, William. They are the birds I write about. Maybe in some ways, they symbolize me.
Almost April
The gloom of winter is nearly now gone,
but summer still sleeps,
not quite ready for her big entrance.
This is spring, and she’s still young,
so, satisfied, we capture
bits of today’s breezy brilliance,
enlivened by the simple pleasure of it all,
grateful for this good day.
It might actually be a good day,
nothing too grand, nor magical,
simply a few hours of quiet enjoyment,
some idle conversation with the neighbors,
a sisterly Sunday phone call on the patio,
cheered by the crisp sunlight of late March,
hands shielding eyes against the glare,
smelling the ocean in the thin clouds,
as the last of the foothills snow melts.
Melting snow cannot mute
the hopeful sounds of passersby,
as baseball season is upon them,
the dark days of busted brackets behind,
still a rosy outlook for the local heroes,
not yet time for clever analysis,
of what went wrong this time.
There’ll be time later for the reality of defeats,
their shadows eclipsing summer’s bright sun.
Today is a time for hope.
Seizing the moment… love this embracing pause.
Everybody’s 0-0 on opening day. Love it.
THE JEWEL OF RENEWAL
every season
has a reason
an embedded gem
carrying forward the wheel
each unique feel
like a silent mystical hymn
without all four turning
how to satisfy our yearning
to find that mighty balance
it is in their own motion
we find the commotion
and give it every chance
whether summer, fall, winter or spring
it’s what they usher in and bring
we somehow align with that
shedding heavier winter clothes
fast as we can, heaven knows
wind comes back, grab the hat
thank goodness the cycles come and go
sometimes too fast or frighteningly slow
trusting they will appear
helps keep us high on our watchful toes
keeping us aware and attuned, I suppose
always prepared, too, never to fear
if it’s too cold, breezy and chilly
it will warm up nicely in a dilly
it’s nature’s real true insurance
and if you’re far too hot
and you’d much rather not
next turn of the season, reassurance
(c) Janet Rice Carnahan 2023
Wonderful rhyming!
Janet, these stanzas were like wheels turning, perfect pattern of rhyme and pacing.
Thank you, Damon and William! I appreciate your kind words!
Walt, these seasons personified speak by word and action! Loved this.
Something from prompt 329:
Spring in the Panhandle
It’s never really ever winter here
Like where I grew up in Northern Maine
In Florida it’s spring and then summer
Then fall, and fall, and fall again
It seems the trees are quite confused
One day they’re full, the next they’re bare
The slightest wavering of the temperature
Makes these stupid trees shed everywhere
We rake the leaves in late January
Then the trees grow new leaves once more
In February the winds blows chilly
And more leaves pile outside our door
It warms, and again we raked them
New spring leaves will take their place
Then the temperature might dip to forty
Now they’ll fall at an accelerated pace
In March we rake them up again
Hoping in April on the trees they will stay
But if we happen to get a weird cold snap
We’ll be raking them again in May
Southern California was a bit ,like that too.
Skirting the Edges Of March
Spotted on white fence,
the scarlet coat
of a cardinal. Some
brave purple crocus
push through
the earth. Fragile
daffodils in bloom,
now sway in a chill
wind. Miniscule buds
tentatively make
an appearance on
the tips of the
Japanese maple. This
is the time of year
we walk on tip-toes
skirting the edges
of March, hoping
April will see us
into spring.
Lovely; the whole poem has a tippy-toe feeling to it.
Thanks, William!
THE GIFT OF SPRING
Summer bears the demise of her waning strength.
Fallen from grace—she stiffens for the expectant blows
of autumn’s push.
The once plush greenery of the day is now a rush of rainbow.
A hoard of hues race toward the shame of muted browns.
Down, down, down to the ground—humbled, once
again, where it all began. Hidden beneath blankets of
rich somber soil.
She falls for the cruel lullabies of winter’s cold spell.
Asleep in the bed—she dreams of the freedoms of silk
butterflies.
Of being freed from mediocrity; the slavery of grays,
into the distinctness of emerald born blues, and the
brightness of sun-filled craze.
Coiled…She lay drunk in the wine of dreams—but
it seems that her slumber has slackened off.
The buds have yawned. The turtle dove has sung.
The resonant sounds of spring has sprung from the deep.
Another day has dawned—no longer to keep the night watch.
Her wings have woken with the chorus of every living thing.
It’s the gift that keeps on giving, and giving,
and giving—it is the gift of spring.
©️ Benjamin Thomas
Lovely use of language; especially. for me, the yawning buds.
From the South
You watch for a single line
drawn across parchment sky
a minimal strokes in India ink
horizontal wings
(no flared tips, no backswept arch)
legs a single swipe behind
streamlined body
stiletto bill extended neck
the Great Blue Heron returned
to the borrow pit beyond the river
coming in for landing
coasting the sky
and on his back
Spring.