Challenge #1

Ok, poetry partner, here is my take on "Ode to the West Wind," or whatever. I'm so holding up my end of the bargain.

Ode to the Morning Rain (by me!)

I

How softly the morning rain hails Spring,
Her fertile glory held in promises made
By the water misting down upon the hills.

Those hills, which only months before
Were barren and brown and black
With rotting wood and broken stem

Are now as green, or if not, hold the
Promise of such lively greenery as
Only you, soft morning rain, provide.

Yet Winter’s damage still prevails
Amidst the sodden shrubs and lusty gales.

II

That damage might be prevalent
Even at such glorious time as this,
Is inconceivable, yet the evidence

So obvious in my sight, in the
Sight of all the world, persists-
The broken boughs, once heavy

With snow and ice- the homes now
Smashed where once little birds
Sang, that the cycle of their lives

Be not in vain, and yet in the morning rain
I find those surviving, who might sing again.

III

Go away! The morning’s mist seems
To proclaim. Be gone from our sight,
Cold ice and hail! For your time is up,

And now Spring has come upon us,
To awaken our hearts and spirits with
Cheer and wonder, that we survive,

Somehow, the bitter Winter and all her
Creeping chill. We have survived, the
Little birds proclaim, their tentative joy

In the brisk morning a true sound to behold,
Their voices upraised with sung praises manifold.

IV

Ah, but what new danger comes with Spring,
That may yet silence all happy noise, and
Surely still the beating wings and hearts?

That same promise as foretells of green
And newly hatched voices instills in man
A sense of purpose, a feverish belonging

Which, unchecked, rages over every instinct,
Every shred of common decency and sense,
And makes our hearts beat faster than before

With the desire to feed and proclaim our own lives
To the world and thrums our bodies like bees in hives.

V

It is such irritable, heedless sense which
Drove me fast in the morning rain, which
Made me lose myself in that precious second.

As I directed my vehicle, dazed, from
Holy mysteries homeward bound instead
And dreamt, wide-eyed of the pleasures

Of afternoon naps and a cat upon my
Chest. I felt alive, then! I was all myself
And yet the only thing that is bleeding so

Is the little bird which dove at the road
To find a worm and found my car instead.


VI

Oh! Spring morning, with its rain and promise!
Such things should be forbidden on such a
Glorious day as this could and should have been!

To drive forward, to leave behind myself
That little flash of blue, so alive moments before,
To see him lying in the road, body broken,

Life no more! I would die, myself, to atone
For the sin of taking his unknown life, for
The tragedy of Spring with its feverish dream.

I know the little fellow only saw a worm,
And flew too fast for me to brake, and yet!

And yet!