After The Rains

 Leaving my chores to procrastination
I seek the cooing voice of spring,
where shafting through a feathered song
a crystal sword of sunlight
speaks with startling beauty.

 Beneath the spread of mammoth oaks
and fragrance of the supple sage,
I take a break to deeply inhale the woods,
air as pure as glacier springs
and stalks of mountain lupines.

 Through big-cone spruce and manzanita
and boulder’d hills of chaparral,
I climb the steep crest above the desert
and serenity of open space,
rimmed by purple mountains.

 Atop an avalanche of emerald greens
and sun-shards igniting spring,
are golden lights of buttered poppies
and awe of painted sands,
so I descend to wildflowers,
--after the rains.

 Ed Keenan © 11-04

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