First Day of Summer

A magic flute, a silver note,
a robin on the wing;
everything is celebrating
summer     and I
am one with them.

My eyes see only art,
the weed, the vine, the bloom,
the supple Maple tree,
Each is a maestro
in its proclivity to dance, or sing,
or merely be.

Though I,
wan mortal that I am,
stand paler
by their beauty, Today
I am at once the wing-ed bird
and the graceful tree.

This New Day

On May 16, 2019May 16, 2019 By smzangIn 1, Poetry, sarah zang, smzang4 Comments

           

..begun with birdsong and dew;
and a  newspaper that’s  a smear
of condensation and sensationalism
(soon only the scandal sheets
will survive.)

Each day
marks the end of something…
flexibility, dexterity, temerity…
the probability that today it might be
the end of war and world hunger
is a jump even on this optimistic morning
when May and the sun conspire for perfection
but the possibility is there.

Hungry souls
sense what they never know.
Somewhere inside
all of us live alone.  Breathe deeply
as if consciousness expands
with the lungs.  Take that first sip
of dawn and with it a hit of reality…
This day will be what we make it.

To Bryant's Fountain

“…shall the veins that feed thy constant stream  be choked in middle earth, and flow no more forever, that the water-plants along thy channel perish, and the bird in vain alight to drink?”  (from The Fountain by William Cullen Bryant)

What feelings has a fountain stilled
by overgrowth of moss and twigs?
Your silenced waters trod to dust
by the endless marching years.

The twisting thicket pushes hard
against your stony face; leafy
lances penetrate your walls. Wrens
pass without a pause to rest.

What history lies sleeping, deep
within your heart…unreachable
through the thorns and tangled ivy?
What native brave slaked his thirst

with your cold water, ere it turned
red with conquered’s blood or stain
of  autumn rust? But you, storm splashed
soon washed crystal clear again.

For years wheat fields stood by your side
and children tossed their pennies in
to make a wish come true, ruddy cheeks
glistening with sun and youth.

Then, when the farmer’s time was done,
the sportsman hunted and wandered
through September’s noon, but even
hunters hang up their muskets.

The brave surrendered native land;
the child has grown into a man
and all the men have been called home.
Now you alone remain here.

We pass by and pause to wonder
what dreams hide in a fountain’s heart
when the water has departed
and the ancient tears have dried.

Memories