Transitions by B. B. Wright

TransitionsWinterToSpring

Transitions

by

B. B. Wright

 Thick grey ominous clouds float languidly overhead.

The outstretched straw-colored fields push against the swollen pond whose overflow like a ribbon runs across the open land scaring its surface.

Coniferous, once center stage in a winter of white, is forced aside by buds on fingers and arms of hopeful deciduous striving to meet spring’s promise. Tucked in their shaded background, tail-end snow lingers.

Winter’s wind, unwilling to decease, lays a white veil hardened by sharp pellets of ice and rain across the landscape.

Heroically (for they cannot turn back), nature’s shoots venture through last fall’s leafy blanket whilst in the nearby woodlot upon its paths the luxurious purple and white trillium wait to blossom.

Sadly, song birds have not yet arrived to herald this awakening. Or have they sought shelter to hide against the roar of the wind-train across the meadow to crackle the woods beyond?

Bird feeders, once filled to the brim with seed and suet, skip and somersault empty along the same track while the roller coaster of unwelcome snow squalls bullies the sun’s ephemeral moments.

Shutters slap to the rhythm of winter’s last dust as day melts into night and night dives into dreams of tomorrow’s fresh warm transitions

Winter’s Arrow Bowed

Winter’s Arrow Bowed

by B. B. Wright
pollution13 Factories
Crooked fingers steer ahead.
Another row he goes.
Spinal entrails trail behind,
like autumn’s earth before.
Dreams—long in tooth—
like swirling leaves scattered
in their fateful flight.
Each clouded breath’s opportunity
misspent words for blight.
Another row he goes.
Naked truths, fingers point.
Another row he goes.
Furrowed brow, windows cracked.
Another row he goes.
Leathered skin pierced sharply
by winter’s arrow bowed.
Turning down another row
his labor’s hopeful load;
hopeful next year’s seeds
and spring’s nurturing lead
will breathe bountiful crop
like toils long ago.
But… times have changed!
Faultless winds blow unchecked.
Another row he goes.
Landscapes wither in overflow,
greed’s bliss point’s undertow.
Another row he goes.
History’s hindsight useful tools,
not in future’s fold.
Imprisoned minds must unchain
before the shadowed Scythe
ravishes fields and swallows-up
DNA’s genealogical threaded might.
Another row we go?