Printemps

The ice's grip has eased in strength
and days rejoice their dazzled length;
the crystals shine in crimsom hue
with water's green and winsome blue.

The frozen fields free their forms
when winds are soft and sunlight warms.
The groves regain their gracious glow
and strip away the sterile snow.

The bells emerge from barren ground,
from under branch and earthen mound.
They spring erect in spreading height
to hail day and healing light.

The brooks arise with breaking flow
from morning dew and melting snow.
The water washes winter's frown
and preens a golden of poppy crown.


In verdant parks the vigils end
in bursting mothers's birthing rend.
The young enjoy the yellow breeze,
a whisperred wind of warmth and ease.

The window sitting woman views
the leas below in lucid hues,
the fawns that skip on forest trail
and cubs that chase the clover frail.

The dance resumes, usurping death,
the pairs unite with panted breath.
Repeat the chant from prior years
that moves the heart with mingled tears.

They play and sport on pleasant knolls,
the children in their changeless roles;
they set their steps to cyclic fates.
The window sitting woman waits.


In royal gardens roses billow,
with iris, lily, oak, and willow,
with groves of laurels, grown to height,
and ponds where geese prepare for flight.

The fortress guards the farms and town
the vale holds in vibrant gown.
Above the fields bluffs are grim
and woods are thick on wild rim.

A simple folk the soil breeds
who sow their oats and apple seeds,
The fertile pastures fill their tables;
their horses stand in humble stables.

The smithy rings from smashing blows;
the tailor sews his tidy clothes;
in morning light the merchants sell
or visit near the village well.

Beyond their fields yawns the wild
where boles are thick and boulders piled.
There hunt the wolves and hide the deer
in caves and pines and canyons shear.


Since faded past whence fables wane
the castle holds the kings who reign
and tend the peace of town and farm
and fend the folk from fear and harm.

The king is dressed as custom orders
in scarlet robes with scallopped borders.
The sons will follow fathers's searches,
with hymns they chant in holy churches.

A daughter preens her pretty doll
ere babes are borne who burp and crawl.
The maidens learn at mothers's sides
their roles in life as rosy brides,

The vale fills their vows goals,
the children in their changeless roles;
they set their steps to cyclic fates.
The window sitting woman waits.

The pensive queen is perched beside
a wooden sill and window wide:
no baby warms her barren days,
no prince awaits the wealth and praise.


A stirring starts one startled morn:
the wife is freed of woe and scorn;
she scarce believes her skittish womb:
she joins the blithe and joyful bloom.

Her husband holds her hand and arm,
defends his wife from fear and harm.
Her aching belly bears his heir,
his dynasty ere death will snare.

He builds his dreams for baby's tread
to teach the child, timely bred,
to take the realm and tame the vale
when age will take the elder frail.

In sweaty pain she swelled to burst
and through her frame the throbs traversed.
The blood and water blend and puddle;
she writhes within a wracking huddle.

Her husband walks behind the door
and bides his pacing, back and fore.
The servingwomen seethe and teem
about the cries and birthing scream.


'Bless the day that brings the light,
that shows my child shining bright,'
the Mother sings in sated morn.
'My daughter, now, today is born.'

They clean its face and cut the cord
that joined the wife to gentle ward.
They rest the babe by rounded breast
which suckles life it so caressed.

What little feet, what longing eyes,
the mother coos in mild sighs.
How warm her face, how weak her finger;
this languid morn and mood should linger.

The Father holds the faithful hand
while waiting maidens watch and stand.
His child's mate shall challenge time
to ward their names from wear and grime.


The tapers sketch the temple vault
of burdenned boulders brought to halt;
they move about the murk and gloom
where haunted statues hide then loom.

The priest enchants the proper rite
to give the name the girl shall hight.
His voice entones the verse and spell
about the nave beneath the bell.

The Mother held the maidenchild,
the gurgling girl, her gaze beguiled,
'What future strife shall fold your brows?
My Rose's Bud of royal vow.'