Week 12

In which our journey comes to an end

Welcome to The Public Domain Poetry Project where we deconstruct an older poem by using each line (one per week) as a jumping off point for a brand new poem. Participants are encouraged to share their poems in the comments below, or to leave us a link so we can read them elsewhere. If this sounds like fun to you, please consider subscribing for free so you don’t miss next week’s prompt. Thanks for visiting!

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There is something mournful about snow in March and April. We know it’s coming. Snow is part of spring here. We know it will likely melt the next day. But still.

I’ve been noticing birdcalls the last few weeks. They’ve changed, even if the weather hasn’t. It’s strange to hear the chickadees, that long, two-note call, “feeeebeeee,” that conjures every leafy green, pine-scented summer morning I’ve spent in Maine, when there is still snow on the ground. But the birds know better than we do when spring is here and they can’t help but sing about it.

When I sat down to write today’s poem attempt it was in the midst of a spring snow storm Out the window, the newly sprouted tulips were fast disappearing under drifts of white. The tiny dwarf irises had already opened and were buried, too. After so many years here, I know better than to worry about them. Unlike the apple or cherry blossoms in May, the flowers of early spring are untroubled by cold. They are patient. Unlike me, chafing against icy, soggy ground, gardening season still weeks away.

There’s a lesson in here somewhere that I’m feeling too weary to heed at the moment. Something about perseverance in difficult times and the power of hope and resilience. At any rate, the snow is nearly gone now. The irises survived and doubled in number, the tulips are an inch taller.

When when we started this project back in January, the end date seemed impossibly far away. In part because I knew that winter would be ending and that is hard to imagine in January. But here we are, twelve lines of poetry explored, maybe twelve poem seeds ready for planting. Thank you all so much for playing along here. I’ll be back again next week with a wrap-up post and maybe some thoughts about future installments of The Public Domain Poetry Project. Until then, you’ll find the final line of “Travel,” by Edna St. Vincent Millay below, followed by my poem attempt. It was hastily written, and needs a lot of work. But it’s spring. There’s plenty of time.

Happy writing, everyone. I’ll see you in the comments.

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No matter where it’s going

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Snow Over Spring

A spring snow is falling,
the kind that lowers spirits
raised by yesterday's sun

All that was green and sprouting
is now white, the trees again
their winter selves, bare 
branches draped in snow

A house finch at the feeder,
chest red as cherry lipstick,
the only proof of spring

It flies away, swooping arcs, 
like bunting, like swags of snowy
power lines along the road

Wings bursting, then soaring
bursting, then soaring,
taking with it all certainty
we had that winter was gone

But now I see it, perched in a tree
its candy apple breast glowing
through the snowflakes, before 
it takes to the air once more

This time it flies away, out of sight
But I like to think it stopped
to reassure me of its return

And I find I do believe, no matter 
where it's going, it will come back
again with a bit of spring in its beak

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