The ceremony of spring
swells in winter darkness,
blades of grass
parting wet ground
on the altar of beginnings.
Incantation and incense
formed by the morning
braid like smoke,
and lift into the four winds,
signal for the earth
to rise and awake.
Beautiful, Don — It’s both tense and delicate for me, the time gap between readiness and the event. A very good time for ceremonies of patience, respect and agreement.
Oh yeah, Brother… and now for a Beautiful Dawning.
The sweetness of anticipation has value in that “almost but not yet” space in life, in seasons, in waiting. Winnie the Pooh taught me that as he described the moment just before tasting the honey. He said it was almost as good as the honey…but not quite.
Don, glad it’s happening where you are because it’s not happening today in Chicago, that’s for sure.
And the beginning is ripe with anticipation……
I’ve not taken any bets for seeing a green blade of grass or dandelion by Easter here in Montana. Beautiful. and sensual are the blades and blossoms. They are on a time table of which I know not.
The angel of spring bides it’s time until the cycles are right , then looks around , nods, and bids the soft command.
Don… such a lovely anticipatory poem! The opposite of what T. S. Eliot wrote in “The Wasteland”… You give us hope. Love you. El
Nature has it’s own timing for awakening, I only watch, love and participate! Beautiful poem reminding us of the wonderment of it all!
A beautifully captured, nuanced, and sacramental view of spring. Thank you.
tom
Don — A highlight of my every Sunday is the arrival of your latest ceremonial incantation to my email inbox — perfect poem and perfect timing always, it rests above my altar of beginnings at the start of every week, initiating a ceremony of delight and meaning, with increased radiance and resonance, always a part of the reason for springing into a cycle of meditation and action — and each poem endures through all seven days until a new Sun Day comes round, when Behold, another incantation arrives like braided smoke spiraling above my altar — beckoning! I am ever thankful.