and I found, finally, the poem I wanted to post in February. Not to worry; it ended being written about March.
It’s seven years old now, having been written in 2001 when I was rediscovering poetry. It’s probably my second finished sonnet — others having been started and abandoned in terror. My first is (deliberately) irregular, probably awful, but finished and done with and two or more decades old. Don’t expect to see it round here.
This is a song to spring in this part of the world.
This is NOT what the weather is like today!
In this domain, the birds fly north to sing.
They congregate to scissor-streak the air
in fours and fives, with chirp and flashing wing,
to loop and sweep their dances, cavalier
across the sky. Their shadows fleck the leaves
of trees who pick their dates to blush and change,
who do not crave the south wind’s warm reprieves,
but look to winter’s breath to rearrange
their greens for reds. Under their rustling boughs,
the rambling bougainvillea throws its sprays
of colour over walls, and spring allows
magenta, white and purple disarrays.
If I could have all this, and winter too,
I’d send the summer winging back to you.