March Wind
Spring Arrives
Clumps of crocus and daffodils,
wet with soft, spring rain,
rise above replenished soil.
Maples’ red buds shake
on ends of thin branches
that vibrate in steady breeze.
Winter’s quiet days rapidly end
with sudden burst of peepers’ song
from swamp which shimmers
in slowly dimming day.
Lainie Senechal
Lainie will participate in a reading of poems written for art in the Blue Wave Fine Art Gallery, Amesbury, MA. The reception and reading is April 2, 6:30-8:30PM.
Tulips
Moving Into the Green
green runs around and beyond.
Grass shoots up a carpet of green,
tender leaves open into green,
branches drip tassels of green:
bright, brilliant emerald green;
dark, secretive hidden green.
Before dawn singing of green
that flies away at first light;
at night, scent of green
which inhabits our dreams.
Lainie Senechal
Primrose
Invitation
What will I write you about May?
I will tell of red-winged blackbirds
defending their territories in reeds
with a raucous refrain.
Or, I may attempt to explain
intense yellow hue worn
by wild mustard blooms
against grasses’ fresh green.
Or, maybe, I will describe
scent of lilacs which
arrive at senses though
blossoms are beyond sight.
Evening’s ocean breezes
loosen petals of cherry
which flutter through air,
land on path, as if strewn
by a flower girl.
Spring is hosting a wedding
which all are invited to attend.
Lainie Senechal
Pink Moon at Dawn
Pink Moon
An eclipse of the pink moon
heralds flowering of new life.
Melt water streams into lake;
ice retreats from shoreline.
Transparent surface teems
with newly hatched fry of fish,
who frantically feed near edge.
Shadows of cumulus clouds
dapple lingering cover of ice.
Lainie Senechal
Full Moon Caught in BranchesFrom parents, a gift,
small cottage beside
shore of alluring lake,
where winter wends to an end.
Spring arises beneath snow
as bulbs surge from slumber.
Lake stays silent;
cover of ice stills surface.
Fishermen spend milder hours
near holes drilled into shell;
lazily lounging as dawn’s light
spreads its soft blush
across a blank canvas and
morning’s moon is caught,
in web of bare branches.
Birds twitter and tweet
fresh tunes to set territories;
serene season nears its conclusion.
Soon, ice will crack and moan;
teeth of wind-driven waves
will gnaw at its edges.
Mergansers will paddle between
floes, a respite on journey north.
Breezes will birth a constant murmur
where noisy gulls and silent falcons
will search for sustenance.
The cycle continues, handed down
to former and recent residents
from the native dwellers
who camped along these shores.
Tete-a-tete
Infatuation
On this harsh, blustery day
heart holds only spring.
Sun will not be halted
in its march to rule the hours.
Spirits lift up to the light;
we hear a new tune
trilled in morning’s twilight;
evening’s glimmer lingers
along horizon, competes
with the rising moon.
Storms do not defeat us;
their bellows have
a distant, hollow tone.
We are already infatuated
with the romance of spring;
like lovers in a trance,
no vagrancies of weather
will distract us from
the rapture of life’s renewal.
Lainie Senechal