I had to shake the trees.
It seemed almost cruel.
Broomstick in hand, under great canopies of new born
leaves frozen within a shell of unforgiving spring snow,
I heaved and hoisted and shook.
It was for their own good.
Fledgling limbs flexed, resilient in their youth.
Rigid arms now hung limp, uncompromising
casualties before my arrival.
I was liberator.
For more stately limbs, older, wiser, seasoned,
they held strong lifting in gratitude as I lightened
My shoulder hurt, but I persisted in my pursuit of
justice against accidental blow.
…then day itself warmed, a memento
of sun seeped through the gray veil
of my Colorado Beltane sky.
Maybe I didn’t need to play at being champion.
Or maybe I was consort.
I move through days weaving and zagging,
wondering which design is true, proper.
And then I walk myself back. I still myself within,
steel my perplexity and receive.
In the whist calm,
my interior depth,
in the cavern I have
carved out for you,
I attend. I see your spring dawn.
And I begin again.
Once again, today I take my prompt from an unusaly icy, snowy spring storm on this