It happens every year – and still I hope All it takes are a few sunny days, a couple warmish nights, and the Magnolia tree in my neighbor’s yard is adorned with plump pinky buds full of promise It happens ever year – a frosty night forces the buds to shrivel up in brown sweaters promises unkept It happens every year – and still I hope
It was a gray day – gray sky, gray dreams. Rolling fog came pushing it’s way across the ground masquerading as a goblin, and I looked for a safe place, a hidey hole. Hope hung limply, like a worn out chemise, until a small trumpeter with a black cap chirped notes of promise into the air.
Next week it will be Spring again the crocus and daffodils that waited beside the tulips for the slanting sun rays to warm the earth will bloom and dull winter birds will put on their best feathers looking for mates and building nests, never doubting miracles like hope
The Friday form challenge over at Poetic Asides is –
“Some of these forms are older than others, and the strambotto traces back to the 13th century. This Italian form known as ottava siciliana (Sicilian octave) or strambotto popolare was the preferred form in Southern Italy, while strambotto toscano was more popular in Tuscany [hat tip to Edward Hirsch’s A Poet’s Glossary]. Today strambotto toscano is known as ottava rima.”
The basic rules for strambotto:
Octave (8-line) poems or stanzas
Hendecasyllabic (or 11-syllable) lines
Rhyme scheme: abababab
Alternate version: There’s also a six-line variant form (still called strambotto) with hendecasyllabic lines and an ababab rhyme scheme.
Here is my attempt (and a picture of that crocus)
And I Smiled
I found a yellow crocus blooming today
amid the detritus of a season gone.
Its slender green and white leaves finding a way
through fallen leaves and bits of bark. It was drawn
by Spring’s silent signals and the Sun’s warm rays.
Tightly curled buds, the color of a new fawn,
unfurl to show off in golden, flouncy play
as a milder wind makes them dance in my lawn
This poem is ready to do that Spring thing
shed some layers, put away the sled.
It’s feeling a spike in gratitude – change
of attitude as that old sun creeps closer,
shines shinier, starts to warm the bones
of this winter weary poem