melting

a consequence of the season

written with a fountain pen

sitting exhausted in the sun and 

enjoying the pleasures of

melting snow:

in the sound of wind and

the yelling of crows

yelling three or four times                                             

of their comings and goings 

and vultures soaring 

just above tree-tops

who silently join the chorus

and who remembers writing

with a fountain pen and

from where did the 

words flow from

of wringer washer

and bringing in

the first laundry 

of the season of

dry and warm 

not frozen

in order

not rushed

shirts flat over trousers 

and socks now in pairs  

and to the stories 

in mends and in darns

with paint punctuation

and who remembers

making fires to stay warm

standing there drying

your hair by the stove

then in cast-iron

cooking a meal

while thanking the trees

in their native tongue

the snow melting quickly

going up with the wind

the dripping reminders

of maple syrup and

gutters to mend and

sculpting the run-off 

planes in the lane

and sculpting 

fluid dynamics towards 

the laminar flow

of a boat in the water

sometime again 

as the treetops begin 

 to collide in a clatter 

tracing  patterns of wind

 dry leaves tumble

from surface to air

in melt-time

with the yelling of crows

on in-blowing grey and

on and off rain

to walk in the forest

in a blue and white sky

the beech leaves still clinging

translucent from golden

wind chimes in a chorus 

as trees begin creaking

and

where have all the 

wild turkeys come from

long hard winter

if you've noticed

some thing's wrong

long time gone

reduced in the edit

with mouse on the sketch-book

to digitally dull

with rings in our noses

protected from elements

ignoring the singing 

of our mother

nature