MUSED Literary Magazine.
Poetry

The Balm of Spring

Deborah Guzzi

I wake, egged on by a celestial
fry, sunny side up. The sclera
of my eyes unable to reject
the call of a spring.
Clothed in winter remnants, I
circle a manmade pond charged
with early anglers. I too am
hooked. Panīs shadow stalks.

Alone, I whisk the gravel walk
wrens bush play, a stream races
laving a weight of jade green
grass, loving the tumbled agates.
So often, too often, the light is
scalding bright and sleep a balm
sought each solitary day. A hollow
down warm, depressionīs stay.

Today I awake renewed by the heat
of sun, spring is not to be denied.
The auricle of my earīs unable to
reject the call of bird song.
The footpath, quartz crisp grates;
a breeze brings laughter from the
swings. Among the lofty maples,
branches embrace a noontime sun.

If I was but a nymph possessed
by glade I know Iīd never seek
depressionīs lure and Iīd abide
in this sylvan glade forever more.
This sensory place with taste of
winter fleeing, with geese that honk,
and childish sails which race, such as
I would fill my loneliness with grace.