Forsythias

Forsythia

May, ‏2005

Driving by that first vernal forsythia,

I know I should be on foot for the full rush of this much gold.

Blazing like the fiery peak of love’s first impression,

It shines saffron against a western periwinkle springtime sky.

I regret having none of my own, and vow to set one in before the planting season ends in summer’s inferno blast.

But on the way out and back I am busy, and I remember, too, the quiet green that takes over in two weeks’ time, sooner if we get those winds ―warm Chinook or frigid Sirocco,

Or a hold-over winter storm prematurely tumbles these luscious petals that cannot bear the wet weight of inhospitable snow.

I recall, as well, the comfortable quiet unremarkable verdure that lasts all summer

And into autumn,

Like love worn dull with the passage of too much time and too many quarrels.

And I decide, once again, to pass them up and wait instead for awesome clusters of the purest yellow to surprise me with their intense glory as I ride past my neighbor’s homestead, come next April.

Mid-December ecumenical wishes

I offer my favorite winter holiday poem as a gift to anyone who happens upon this page. The poet is a dear friend who loves words almost as much as she cares for friends and family.

Perhaps you'll agree that these lines capture the joys and warmth of the winter holidays. If I were Garrison Keillor, I'd read this one aloud.


Happy Holidays and Happy New Year

---
Mid-December, 1998

Our two wise cats stay close to home,
Content to let the sun's rays roam
Over their somnolent forms,
Hunt dust-bunnies, play 'catch-the-comb.'
The sun retreats at half past four,
The chipmunks chatter at our door.
The moles break into squirrel's store,
The crows berate them: "Nevermore!"
And as the darkness wends its way
In your direction, come what may,
We hope your heart and home are bright
As star and lamp on miracle nights.

Rebecca Ritke