After the deluge, an unseasonable snow
left a carapace of black ice on the roof of the car
and on the translucent petals of the impatient jonquils—
their papery white petals translucent as glass.
You could almost hear them ringing like small bells.
Yesterday, it was barely cold enough for the snow to stick
but it whispered in a strange, silent tongue on the ridges,
unlike the droves of rain that broke the drought.
During the night, the temperature plummeted,
archiving traces of fallen snow—scattered clumps
of snowflakes frozen on the windshield left calling cards—
delicate patterns etched in ice that refracted the morning light
into prisms of iridescent hues.
This cold snap, a reprise in the death knell
ringing in the toll of mass extinctions.
As I drove north on country backroads,
the grizzled pates of the coastal mountain ranges
transformed by St. Brigid’s pure cloak,
fair stole my breath away.
Welcome spring.
2/4/19
rev. 2/4/2020
From a Facebook post
Revised even more here, so now I have tree poems.
left a carapace of black ice on the roof of the car
and on the translucent petals of the impatient jonquils—
their papery white petals translucent as glass.
You could almost hear them ringing like small bells.
Yesterday, it was barely cold enough for the snow to stick
but it whispered in a strange, silent tongue on the ridges,
unlike the droves of rain that broke the drought.
During the night, the temperature plummeted,
archiving traces of fallen snow—scattered clumps
of snowflakes frozen on the windshield left calling cards—
delicate patterns etched in ice that refracted the morning light
into prisms of iridescent hues.
This cold snap, a reprise in the death knell
ringing in the toll of mass extinctions.
As I drove north on country backroads,
the grizzled pates of the coastal mountain ranges
transformed by St. Brigid’s pure cloak,
fair stole my breath away.
Welcome spring.
2/4/19
rev. 2/4/2020
From a Facebook post
Revised even more here, so now I have tree poems.
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