Spring (The First of Four Sisters) Poem

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(Photo by: Alexandru Zdrobau)

Raven haired springtime
the color of thunderclouds spiking thirty thousand feet
comes the first and most dynamic of all the sisters
Hell hath no fury, as tempest shouts her arrival
when the warm and cold air collide in a battle high above Terra Firma
She is the regal one, with trumpet blasts and flashes of mortar fire as hot as the surface of the sun
that sends humans fleeing before her

With a flick of her wrist, a tornado touches down
and with its wicked tail writes her signature on the ground announcing her presence
as her armies of southern sweet air clash with Winter’s bitter winds

The age old fight between life and death
what was and what shall be, a clockwork madness that
despite its wrenching pain happens again and again
and unlike the other sisters, her place is seized not given

Astride a lion, whose roar causes trees to bend down in respect
crocus, tulips, daffodils burst forth from the solid ground – resurrected from slumber – triumphant
as the white fades from the landscape and the world stretches and wakes

Once upon her throne, she calms slowly as the earth turns from concrete to clay
as the nights shorten in length to day
she lowers herself to walk among the cradles of the babes with doe-eyed wonder and tender promises

In like a lion, with all the majesty one could muster
she awaits her ebony sister, Summer, with a lamb’s heart
She is spring, wise mother, giver of life abundant.
Her name is Spring and she is the Queen of all she sees.

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