Poem: Late March

 

Late March

 

pips of snow

wane from sepals long fizzled russet.

the sky stretches almost as white,

cerulean at the edge,

faint in a skirt of pearl.

 

such a dramatic march of wind,

alders and tamaracks professing to gusts.

chickadees chatter to waylay a grouse.

and spruce-squawky ravens goad a rabbit

back into its castle of thorns.

 

all day, it goes on,

the hullabaloo, advent and consequence,

clouds rooking and horsing each other,

even as they ruffle the surly bay.

 

a single fledgling looks out,

eyes as bold as they are fresh,

as piquant as lucid,

as if nature had just been born,

beautiful and clear.

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I submitted this poem to the Eastport Arts Center Poetry Prize competition, and not surprisingly didn't win or place.  For one thing, it was a paid prize ($300 1st place), which draws huge amounts of submissions.  Secondly, it's pretty much the nature of things that there is going to be tons of rejection when submitting poems to various journals, prizes, etc.  I've been rejected so many times.  However, I also have published over a 1000 poems, due to perseverance, and despite the fact that many of my poems are bad, even a good number of the accepted ones.

The above poem, though, "Late March," I feel is one of my better efforts.  The inspiration is a forest near a bay in Down East, Maine.