.
.
over the field
long arms swim
turbines in the fog


and


green velvet dress
for spring
mother's grave


and


daffodil head
bent low to thunder
raises in the dawn
.
.

.
.

daffodils

pre-dawn glow

no rivals

spring peepers

songs in the valley

everyone hears

brown thrasher

stealing all songs

steals only one heart

I wasn't born

in spring,

not even concieved.

But, I must have heard

the songs through my mother's

drumming womb, each spring I die

just a little bit, from beauty,

the green knife twists.

Spring says 'here is more;

smell me, touch the green.

I will sprout and you

will never -all your life-

catch me happen,

until I am

and you are not.'

.
.

.
.
one yellow pansy

yellow nod

to the sun

Specifics of Spring

Bloodroot's

white petals

surrounded

by hawthorne spikes

and racing waters

higher along the deer trail

bones scattered

the skull of a deer

and hair

and a bit of spine

naked to the sun

my face

turning to spring.

This spring and each spring

has its own peculiarity,

the more springs I live

the more power spring

accumulates over me.

.
.

.
May flowers are going to be great this year! Love, Becky


cardinal
amongst the cedars
lost



dark wet boulders
slippery
spring rain



waterproofing hiking boots
drip
soggy socks
.
.

.
.
grass seed

touched with snow, robins and juncos

fight to eat

sheep

snow covers

green grass

unopened daffodils

heads nod yes

slow spring

A perfect spring

would be the one

we are having now,

slow and cool.

More late winter

than early summer.

Inviting the hard work

to be down outside

without a sweaty brow.

So I spread some more seeds

for birds and grass,

and wait with the daffodils

nodding my head

in time to the falling snow.
.
.

.
.
ducks

swollen river

raindrops over nest

tax form

ready

frown and check

Daffodils

yellow heads about to open,

lean as birds imprinted

on their mother,

toward sun's face. .

.

.
.
rain barrel
drum
of spring rains




I Join You

You are the bird's songs,
sun's rays, frog's peeps,
insects I can not hear,
and roots I can not see.
You are the life coaches,
birth coaches,
and cheer leaders of spring.
.
.

.
.
cat on keyboard
spells
treble


blue crocus
tight lipped
until morning


pink sunrise
lighting up woods
song birds
.
.

.
.
Hungry Air

Air full of hunger
and tiny knats just hatched,
spring
rain and thundering clouds
roll over the corpse of two birds,
one,
only its feet and tail remain.
The other’s dry eyes
colorless,
their stirring songs gone.
Feathers
never to be preened
and never again to be ready
for a long flight over bright water
What bird dropped them?
What came along
larger
in the midst of feed or be food?　

B. Harblin April 11, 2011
.
.

.
.
Three senryu and many hurrahs for spring. Love, Becky


grass seed washed
downhill
blue jays eating



open window
bird sings
wet feet



spring peepers
calling
me outside
.
.

.

.

robin song

heard under blankets

whistle back

Only four blackbirds

this morning pecking

on cold ground,

do they wonder

about the other twenty?

.

.

.
.
moon saucer

a sliver

in the window frame

spring field

pale green

frosted

new stove

not installed

still glows

You can not buy the scent

of this time of year.

Sunshine strokes sallow cheeks

through the open door

the sounds of the All

shoot through your body.

Alive, alive,

and even the mourning dove

sounds hopeful.

.
.

.
.
snow flakes

between green grass blades

robin hops

open lid

bearing corn

raccoon

To You

I miss you.

But when I turn

and see the Daffodils

pushing with all their worth

full of hope and future,

(perhaps as you did

giving birth to me,)

I think you must be near.

And just the other day,

a friend watched

a tree frog cling

to her screen door,

and a salamander, slow

in the cool spring sun,

all-the-while birds were singing

love songs,

so how could you

be far away from that?

.
.

.
.
puddles

ring the yard

muddy turkeys

rain through spruce needles

filtered fresh

scents of spring

blue tips of crocus

one cup open

spills rain

.
.

.
.
three red-wing blackbirds
corn and birdseed
holed up in dirty snow


unfinished arbor
grapevines
naked


calendar
loose papers
booked


dog ahead
turkeys
further ahead
.
.

.
I saw a black bear yesterday mostly from the rear not to far from the wind turbines in Brainardsville. I stopped the car to watch his run for spring. His butt was very broad and kinda cute. Two haiku, one senyru and one shorty. Be blessed, Becky


bear moves
towards woods
lumber


and


robins and cardinals
under spruce
no snow


and


two deer in pasture, four more deer
watching
my dear at window


and


Spring Peepers

Spring's broken waters
send swells of rivulets,
legs press against
swollen
banks
readying
to emerge,
raucous cries
of love
and life.
.
.

.
.

deer

jumps fence

faces sheep

desk papers wet

lamp drips

upstairs shower

car trouble,

shower leaks, and dead stove

lottery?

.
.

.
.
robin

sitting in the sun

a patch of spring




sun-yellow forsythia

blooms fall

on the table




shoots of crocus

still just 3/4 inch

measure weather
.
.

.
.
sheep walk back to barn
crooked line
to spring






sleet pushes down
spring
crocus coming up






Learning 

Guns are not short cuts
to peace, or democracy.
Ask any elder
who can't remember
breatkfast.
They remember
the wounds of war.   
.
.

.
Two senryu and one shorty and spring spring spring signs!! fred (means peace in swedish), Becky


deer browse
garden statues
notice dog




grackles chatter
spring sun
strokes my ears




Last night I dreamed I had red hair
and a hair piece to make it long.
I didn't like it. But I kept falling asleep
in the chair and the stylist
kept changing it around.
Finally I awoke
with short died blonde
(grey) hair.
Long red hair seems like a dream now.
.
.