Photo credit: Ken Lassman
The parsley rises tentatively, curled fingers
to test the air before billowing too fast
into bitterness even the rabbits won't eat.
The broccoli goes to town, and finding no one there,
except decaying Christmas trees, bolts to full decline.
Carrot tails wave in the wind, decaying underground
because of rain too early, too much.
All March, what should be dead comes alive: redbuds
break out all over town a month early, as if waking late
on a Sunday, then panicking that it's Monday.
Too-green grass, too-cheery daffodils, too-dark-skied
horizons storm through, the planet so far out of wack,
even the air heats its long fingers months ahead,
blurring whether to plant or harvest,
what state, what season, what to do next.
Meanwhile, the dog goes missing, the alarm goes off
at the wrong time, the phone call that matters most
drops and the dreamtime mismatches past longings
with forecasts we couldn't image even 10 years ago.
When morning comes at the right time, the old doves
call for each other in the cedar. We get in our cars,
lean our heads out the windows of speed, listening
for the exact music of the changing air.
Caryn Mirriam-Goldberg, Kansas Poet Laureate Emerita, is the author of 23 books, including Miriam's Well, a novel; Needle in the Bone, a non-fiction book on the Holocaust; and a forthcoming book of poetry, How Time Moves: New and Selected Poems. Founder of Transformative Language Arts, Mirriam-Goldberg also leads writing workshops widely, coaches people on writing and right livelihood through the arts, and consults with businesses and organizations on creativity. Caryn lives with her husband, nature writer Ken Lassman, and many animals south of the Wakarusa River, near Lawrence, Kansas, where they restore prairie and try to sustain hope. www.CarynMirriamGoldberg.com
I'm a writer & teacher in Lawrence, Kansas who actually believes the scientists. I wrote a book of poems called Of Some Sky that seems to have something to do with all this.