A Yorkdale Spring

A Yorkdale Spring

Springtime always smells of rot,
and fertile concentrations of muck.

The compost pile, awakened from its winter slumber,
steams in its glory as the last of the snow beats
a sly retreat back to the northern side of the woods.

The dog’s deposits, long forgotten and frozen, burst forth in fungal profusions.

Sweet swelling nastiness wrinkles the nose as
soaked mukluks and mittens dry, dripping over the
radiator in percussive droplets,
emitting their questionable incense from hissing censor.

Like a baby born in blood and excrement,
whose screams of painful birthing signal the life-filled breathing,
springtime comes into the world messily.

Growing, crying, slimy and wet, soaking, shiny, smelly, and yet…

ALIVE!

Springtime brings the…
…shoots of green uprising out of meadows pulsing sunward,
as woven nests cradle upward seeking mouths.
…thoughts of whimsy playing upon my mind as I look longingly at legs released from winter’s woolen wrappings.
…pleasant evenings dodging hungry insects and listening
to amorous frogs proclaim their desire in frightening chorus.

Oh what splendid squalor! Oh what fecund mess!

Oh to be in springtime now that it’s England again.

Stuart Andrew Marshall Tanner (aka Samiyam)

Re: A Yorkdale Spring

Dear Stuart, I deeply (as in loamy, nutrient-rich, soil/soul) enjoyed your rich poem. You brought a more beautiful side to T.S. Elliot's “unkindest season”. 
  In fact, I always enjoyed the smell of cow manure in the spring of rural Kentucky where I was raised. While disgusting, it also has sweet overtones, as does the woody smell of fall leaves. Sweet and savory - that's what your poem is. 
   Thanks for bringing the savory to sweet. It gives me a deeper sort of hope - more like faith, with an acceptence of death and rotting as part of the lushness of life. 

  Darrell