There, just there — where the first cellos
of March come in, before the oboes
or the ides — there, the brooding
before budding or cranes return,
before clarion brass of calendar spring,
the thing made of maple and ice,
there, that dripping, the ripping of the long,
white garment, there, the giggling
of flutes, perennial roots waking in cold soil.
At last, a roll of timpani just
before this symphony season’s end,
a thunder of freeze unfreezing.
Cymbal crash of lightning tightening senses,
there, the tension as a hundred violins go wild,
waking your lover, waking your child.
Innuendo of greening in the plop
of that first drop of the applauding rain
and it’s over again — there’s a silence
so profound we can hear the stirring
of the deep unknown, and underground.
© by Ralph Murre.
Used with the author’s permission.