Pageant of Seasons. Helen Stiles Chenoweth
jays sunbeam-diving . . .
man buttons his coat.
Soughing waters
and vacancy sign on the house—
the sea gulls cry . . .
In this strange garden
the same notes, the same calls—
birds of my childhood.
Archaic smell,
and yet spring's conscious green
on moss-grown headstones!
Boy snares the spring moon
in his water bucket and dreams
of rocket ships . . .
Spring rain pelting down
on winter's heap of dry leaves—
sound disintegrates.
Boy flying his kite
with authority in string
and his small hands.
That old rooftop
brags of spring in opera voice
of one mockingbird.
Gentle reminder:
for the first mockingbird's song
there is no title . . .
Liquid sounds of April:
that bubbling in the orchard
from one cow blackbird.
There is the quiet
of crickets and tree frogs
and one man thinking . . .
Those tossed peanuts
fail to impress greedy squirrels
with donor's blindness . . .
To shed a cloak
of pain when seeing friends
with spring's first lilacs . . .
That moonlight of spring—
no soporific for crickets
and mockingbirds.
Matching spring's wits
the ball thrown by the boy
chased madly by the dog.
Braided ivy vines
held many bird songs but spring
chose a single nest.
The grape hyacinths
purple the garden path edge—
no trespassing!
First, clowning jays,
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