Poetry Friday: Spring Fever In Action

Image by Bill Gracey via Flickr

Happy Poetry Friday to each and every one of you!

Been out this morning a bit and going to be out a bit more the rest of the day. I love it when poetry happens to me, especially on a busy Friday like this one. I always wonder if this week will be one of the weeks when I sit there waiting for a poem, or if the perfect inspiration will hit via idea or experience. Today, Poetry came by and stepped into my life without so much as a "by your leave" and it was lovely. Transporting even.

To My Husband, Just So He Knows

There was something in the air this morning
After I took you to work I pulled in the drive
And bolted rashly from the car, bent with purpose.
The grass was squishy gold and rain was sifting down.
Around a hidden corner of the foundation was a nest
Of forgotten iris rhizomes and they were calling
My fingers feverishly, right there into the mud,
Packing my nails with dark-lines and smudging my left cuff.
I was fumbling earnestly, over the grass, in the rain
Pulling the knobby ginger roots from the turf and
Snaggling them out from under the metal highway
Of the rain gutter sloping over their lumpy toes and
The small silver blue sword points beginning to emerge.
I bent there over the irises and manically pulled
And tossed until I had grown a small heap of liberated
Roots and nubbins, muddy smears and blue-silver tips.
I took the accumulation over to a blank chocolate bed,
And like some desperate primeaval horticulturalist
Used a handy, triangular rock to gouge out muddy earth
Scratching each shallow pit, then tucking in the roots,
Patting soil over them with my sticky brown finger tips.
And there was our son beside me, curious and big-eyed
Watching Mommy crouching over a damp patch of earth
In a pale blue trench coat in the drizzling rain
All mud up to the wrists, gleaming white ear-buds
Dangling over one shoulder and the car keys still in her teeth.

I love that suddenly, after one manic fifteen minutes I have an organized little iris patch. I wonder if all the roots will thrive and take and above all, I wonder and can hardly wait to see what colors that little batch of nubby roots will produce. I am praying that among them there will be one or two of the tall, old-fashioned purples with the long falls and the heavy tangy scent like grape soda.

If you enjoyed this taste of  verse and want a little more to satiate your poetic appetite, click your way over to Liz In Ink and enjoy perusing the list of all the Poetry Friday contributors right along with me!