I MEANT TO WRITE OF SPRINGTIME

I MEANT TO WRITE OF SPRINGTIME
                      (FOR KYLE)

I meant to write of springtime, but winter seized my pen,
And froze it to its bosom like some long gone kith and kin.
The crocuses were buried by an avalanche of ice.
I meant to write of springtime, I tried not once but thrice.
And each time I was thwarted by the vigor of the sleet,
That all my best intentions lay splintered at my feet.

I meant to write of summer, but got swallowed by the whales,
That hunted me like a wanted man in the shoals and in the shales.
They tasted me, then spit me out, my flesh not to their liking,
And I lay half dead on my pale sick bed, flushed and fever hiking.
I tried with what was left of me to recline upon the sand,
And play the game that Fortune staid had laid upon my hand.
But sure as wind sweeps the prairie and sure as man is dust.
I blew away in a flash as ash and never again would Nature trust.

I meant to write of autumn and its blaze orange as it burned,
The autumn a window of color but not for long I learned.
Too little rain, a scorching sun, dimmed all the colors fair,
Then autumn like a banished child vanished into air.
I meant to write of foliage and lovely country churches,
But it all turned into rubble, just another of my fruitless searches.
No matter where I rambled the colors were the same,
Destroyed, downcast, and destitute, I gave up autumn's game.

I meant to write of winter, but found nothing kind to say.
December is the month of death and holidays that do not stay.
January's always jinxed and February's no fun at all.
I meant to write of winter, but the grave to me it called.
And though I felt like heeding, I braved the winter through,
I could not write of springtime until it brought me you.
For you are every reason for the seasons as they turn,
You are every welcome hearth in winter and every fire that burns.
You are every crimson leaf in autumn, every summer beach.
And it is you I cling to when the spring seems out of reach.

Now I write of springtime in all its glorious flowers,
Lying on the beach in summer, whiling away hours.
Now I write of crisp fall nights and winter with its icy snows,
I am at peace with fallow months and the need we have for those.
And if you vow to keep me warm, perhaps one day I'll write of storms,
The reason for man's suffering, in all its rich and varied forms.

I meant to write of springtime, but winter seized my pen,
And froze it to its heathen breast, like a bitter icy wind.
The crocuses were buried beneath a foot of snow.
I meant to write of springtime but each time was thwarted though.
I knew not for sure what springtime was before I felt your grace,
Your beard upon my trembling neck, your lips upon my face.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED