Lord of the dance,
roll out the sun
and its shine.
Light up the scape
with nervous pastels
furrowing spring breezes.
Let the arias raise
like winged praise
above the seams.
Take our hand,
glide us, lead us,
light on our feet.
Till our dormant hearts.
Water us down to the
tip of our roots.
Guide us to the
updrafts of Your glory,
to float on Your praise.
You are the Lord
of the dance.
Sweep us up.
They’ve been back a few weeks,
bringing joy to our open field.
Tap dancers on tufts of spring breezes,
short spurts of song attending.
Slipping in and out of our barn,
nests are sprigged, and detailed
for another generation of acrobats;
those aeronautical exemplars of sky.
Cats lean against the door.
I imagine cigarettes bobbing
out of their mouths, as they discuss
the exploits of the day.
Their disregard for field mice,
those punks, beads for eyes,
little pipsqueaks of manic form.
So cat cliché, so old school.
Then a Cheshire grin settles
under their whiskers as
they look up with angel eyes
of insidious intent.
Feline felons in wait.
Butts are tossed, while
crouching coils their springs.
Hopes of swallowing a swallow.
I’ve never seen cats jump so high.
Burn brightly in the rain,
send your rays across the field,
or sit silently, wait, and whisper
on the wandering breeze.
Set your golden lips,
the ones mimicking the sun,
and blow her yellow kisses.
Lay them golden on her olive skin.
Common Grackles rested
on the naked Maple canopy.
Like aneurysms waiting
to burst into flight
they bent the thinning branches.
They had every rite of spring.
Some of them loitered
through the winter
and saw their reflections on ice.
What freedom to stay.
Christ stayed on the tree
and burst unto death
and burst into flight.
The rite of spring is singing louder.
Louder than my computer fan.
The blue jays are shouting.
The robins are talking over the fence.
The sparrows and chickadees are speed dialing.
This is the first spring in the country.
The window is cupped open.
My ears are too,
and the sounds send me back
to a dead end street of so much traffic.
Starlings would bounce from shrub to shrub.
Plump orange bellies would bow and pull up breakfast.
I could almost hear baby-blue
eggs cracking.
Oh how I miss my mother brooding over us.
© Gerald Allen Barrett and parentheticallyspeakingin3d, 2012.
Gerald the Writer 