Days of Scattered Gold
spring sonnets by
ED HACK | Teacher + Poet
Days Of Scattered Gold
THE air is scattered gold, though March has set
its teeth in hard and now no one can say–
with rascal March it’s always been this way–
if spring or snow or scouring wind will get
the upper hand. No month is such a threat,
so strange. A child, it loves the disarray
of rain, the edginess of bright-ice days.
An older god, we can’t expect regret.
Between the winter and the spring, the old
song says, the Lion prowls and growls, then snores–
it has been so since our world began.
This violence of light does not console.
It rips apart the cold to give us more–
the birth of spring, the startled, new-born lamb.
PURE blue above the sleeping town, so far
from winter gray it’s like the light awoke
from being sick, the purity of stars
embedded in the coldest black, like smoke
that’s blown away by ocean winds so stone
shines in the sun. Amazing that this blue
is here, for now the Earth feels like a home
with open arms inviting us anew
to leave the warmth of walls behind, to step
into a world where plants surge toward the sky,
and green commands the heart and eye to see the pledge
the world has made that winter has gone by.
Enough–that’s all we’ve ever asked–enough
of blue and warm: we know that life’s still tough.