All the Seasons
The air tastes green today, scent of April
on a velvet breeze, sunlight raucous
after heavy rain. Here come the phoebes
to make another nest where the black snake
returns every year to eat hatchlings
just before they fledge on flimsy wings.
Encrypted crow-talk over the kitchen scraps,
chatter that leaves an aftertaste like
artificial sweeteners and microaggressions,
or the morning after lovers’ end.
In the forecast, a tsunami of disasters—
a new war, another flood, three more
mass shootings. Single murders, suicides
not on this list that require four or more
to be shot. Economic gloom, the hail
of rental prices not protected by sandbags
or FEMA’s promises. And yet the flowers
bloom again: purple iris and white dogwood,
forsythia’s profusion to brighten up
the end of winter. Gardeners are out,
transplanting tomato starts, harvesting
the first tender lettuces and spinach,
unaware of the late spring frost to come.
Don’t put away winter clothes and quilts.
You never know what’s on the way.
.
Joan Mazza worked as a medical microbiologist, psychotherapist, and taught workshops on understanding dreams and nightmares. She is the author of six self-help psychology books, including Dreaming Your Real Self. Her poetry has appeared in The Comstock Review, Prairie Schooner, Potomac Review, Slant, Poet Lore, One Art Poetry, The MacGuffin, and The Nation. She lives in rural central Virginia.
Stone Poetry Quarterly 