it seeps into ground beneath your bare feet
it finds the roots of fescue and zoysia
and soaks into the prickly green.
it rolls into the air and colors the sky -red-
leaving patches of deep blue where the pauses happen
and you seize a deeper breath.
it is the last bit of snow and ice
that melts like glaciers past
and feeds waters to finger lakes and other tributaries.
still waters with fantasized sounds
that linger in your ears in pitch darkness
and the swell in the silence that follows.
it lies in wait, cloaked in prairie weeds,
the feral cat on its haunches before he pounces,
flicks his tail twice and then stops.
I know it’s not, but this sounds a lot like “spring pools” by Robert Frost. well done and i appreciate your poem this morning.
Mike, somehow this ended up in my spam filter. Thanks for the comment and for visiting my blog. I looked up “spring pools” and agree that it has a similar voice. I had never read that Frost poem.