. . .near-spring

how?  in the glitter-snow and

     iron-ice no warmly

but world-tilt    sun-milk

     below arrowhead stars,

a small simmer

.

how? earthworm snout

     starts her plow, tilling the yarn

of earth with her gut.

    sky drip behind the untils,

until a code robin sings and

.

now o patient seed labor open

    . . .thy husk

now in the hunger of animals

     eggs unroll into flower buds

fallingly into almost near-

     . . .spring

j. pratt-walter, © 2024

Linked Haiku, Spring

Pink fleece, wool-soft air:

cherry blossoms spread open,

sighing at blue sky.

 

Sometimes transcendence

grows downward beneath your feet

into precious Earth.

 

After blossom-drop

I welcome the glyph of night

as a dark flower.

 

Sighing at blue sky,

I welcome the glyph of night

transcending wool-soft air.

 

J. Pratt-Walter © 2022

Then I Woke Up

       Then I woke up, my memory remade,

still slender as the dream of the chickadee

outside the bedroom window.

Then I woke more and wandered

through the garden, the coral azalea

releasing its lurid scent indiscriminately

over the just and the unjust,

the young and me, the unsure elder.

I thrice awoke, reeling to the perfect homily

of Nature and her unbound truths

masquerading as a slow walk around the yard,

her small prophets the mourning doves

and tree frogs, her flowers calling bees

to their mumbling tasks, life aiding life

unceasing.

They preached this to all who would understand

in this time of separation and dread:

even apart, we are all still a dazzling bouquet

just waiting to happen.

J. Pratt-Walter, © 5/10/2020

Mother’s Day

Her small prophet

Last Waltz

How my body 

wants to waltz!

Now, when the wild lupin lifts

its blue triumph over the tipsy

orchard grass,

now as the tiger lilies flex their

orange arms.

Now, as cherry blossoms

feather their way to the ground,

hinting of the lips of fruit

almost too rich to bear,

let us waltz this one warm river away from any clock,

hands so alive, feet

haunting the floor with yearning

for more –

one last sunset time before the metallic

broken bell of parting.

J. Pratt-Walter, (c)2019