The Balm of Spring

Deborah Guzzi

I wake, egged on by a celestial
fry, sunny side up. The sclera
of my eyes unable to reject
the call of a spring.
Clothed in winter remnants, I
circle a manmade pond charged
with early anglers. I too am
hooked. Pan´s shadow stalks.

Alone, I whisk the gravel walk
wrens bush play, a stream races
laving a weight of jade green
grass, loving the tumbled agates.
So often, too often, the light is
scalding bright and sleep a balm
sought each solitary day. A hollow
down warm, depression´s stay.

Today I awake renewed by the heat
of sun, spring is not to be denied.
The auricle of my ear´s unable to
reject the call of bird song.
The footpath, quartz crisp grates;
a breeze brings laughter from the
swings. Among the lofty maples,
branches embrace a noontime sun.

If I was but a nymph possessed
by glade I know I´d never seek
depression´s lure and I´d abide
in this sylvan glade forever more.
This sensory place with taste of
winter fleeing, with geese that honk,
and childish sails which race, such as
I would fill my loneliness with grace.