by Jim Farfaglia
Once a year she appears,
this spring bride all aglow;
ready to take her vows again
just beyond my kitchen window.
Oh, how her white gown shines
next to new and ever-greens;
the gray of winter fading fast,
her blossoms pure as dreams.
She stands with arms reaching,
joyful to marry this season;
we witnesses, content to wait,
for joy is the best of all reasons.
Muck Farm Moment, by Jim Farfaglia
I love to drive by them in spring,
black soil waking my winter eyes
weary from landscapes of white.
Oh, how their richness stretches far,
how they open with such promise
and foretell a bountiful season.
Soon, farmers will draw their tractors
back and forth, back and forth,
breaking open that promise
and planting it with hope;
trusting sun and rain and time
to reward their months of toil.
One day, their dreams come true
in a green, glorious goodness—
something we can only imagine
when we drive by each spring.
Daffodils, by Jim Farfaglia
I like them best when they appear
in the ditches of rural roads,
hugging the trunks of apple trees
or lined up along neighborhood homes.
I like them best when they cluster,
as if someone from down below
broke through an endless winter
to hand us a bouquet all aglow.
I like them best when just opened,
their pale yellow abeckoning,
their delicate petals forming a cup,
where we drink in the birth of spring.
Sensing Spring, by Jim Farfaglia
Mother Nature has entered
a Crayola Crayon contest
and wins first prize
for best new shade of green.
She calls it “Springtacular.”
Mr. Skunk has returned,
leaving behind his calling card;
I find myself almost grateful
to smell something other than
the dead of winter.
The earth sings again:
my backyard a concert hall,
its icy demeanor warming,
the gurgle of melting snow
murmuring a pleasant melody.
Crocuses pop up everywhere,
like raised hairs on the arm
of an excited world.
I brush their tops
and I bristle, too.
The kale has wintered over.
I strip off a leaf or two
Fine dining at the local café,
reopened for the season.
Mis-seasoned, by Jim Farfaglia
At the east end of the Oneida St. Bridge
in a vacant lot below,
collected from our drawn-out winter
rises a mountain of snow.
Added to truckload by truckload,
measured in yards, not feet,
formed from Mother Nature’s insistence
of blanketing our city streets.
November to March it gets piled,
‘til one day when crossing our river,
we look down at winter’s harsh toll,
its immensity sending a shiver.
Though our fancy calendars may tell us
its time to start living in spring,
we need only look from atop that bridge
to know which season’s still king.
March Madness, by Jim Farfaglia
Somebody above missed the message
that winter’s officially done;
the white stuff keeps fallin’,
the big trucks keep plowin’
and nobody’s having much fun.
We’ve had enough of skiing,
of sledding and cute snowmen;
still the temperature ain’t risin’,
and golfers are agonizin’
over when they’ll see green grass again.
I’d be happy to deliver the word
if I could just find Mr. Sun.
It sure would be pleasin’,
if we had a new season;
here’s hoping he sends the right one!
After an Adirondack Snowstorm,
by Jim Farfaglia
The world is black and white again;
even a mountain range of fir trees
and every branch, bush and boulder
a million flakes, so quietly balanced,
like life here
where a telephone wire’s sole purpose
is to guide me
on the pathway of my peaceful heart.
A Winter Truth, by Jim Farfaglia
Only after an Oswego County winter,
after our spirit has been buried deep,
can a rabbit hop onto a snow mound
and rise up on its hind legs
to nibble from the top branches
of a succulent shrub,
enjoying something so life-giving,
like that first sign of spring:
long dreamed of, but unreachable
without living through a long hard winter.