The skies have been full of many different sorts of clouds lately. The other morning I watched them just brushing across the blue like wisps of smoke.
Clouds of Spring
I’ve never seen the clouds so soft before–
A rose haze floating in a tender, middle
morning blue. But there they are, a score
In smoke-puff pink that read the ancient riddle
Of mid-March: the rain, the dry and brittle
Winds that blow a storm through and then slip
Away to leave the morning just a little
Dew upon the roof. And the dew’s drip
Becomes a language as the seasons skip
Between the warm and chill, between the weeping
Fog and warrior Sun. We take a sip
Of summer; in its swirl we taste the sleeping
Snows above us. Spring is clouds of rose
On winds that smell of flowers and of snows.
As spring moves along, I notice Orion setting far earlier and Scorpio beginning to appear before sunrise. Once again the year cycles along its ancient courses.
Orion
Orion, Orion,
Far in the western sky,
You follow the night:
With the night you fly.
You follow the moon:
Like the moon you die.
And yet you’ll return:
You live longer than I.
Greet the far side of the year:
Let us not say good-bye.
Christine, I've been reading Malcolm Guite for about ten years, the only contemporary sonneteer I know. And then I found your beautiful work. Wow! I am amazed and impressed and inspired. These are beautiful!
Such an extraordinary sonnet! The poem-constructer in me relishes your fearless choice of rhyming sounds (drip!!!); the poem-reader in me is captivated by the clear and beautiful way you show us the clouds linking spring to the winter that was and the summer that's coming. So lovely. The salute to Orion is spare and handsome as the Hunter is; I hope he salutes you back from the night sky.