SuziCate's Musings

Archive for March, 2011

When Spring Has Sprung

When the flight of the butterfly

Stalls on the lavender tufts of phlox

Fresh green replaces the dead and dry

And magic emerges from the hollyhocks

And I wake to dew on the tulips tongue,

I know that Spring has sprung.

When on nature’s beauty I turn my focus

To bask in beauty of petals, cherry and pear

And the tiny purple buds of early crocus

When I catch a whiff of lilac in the air

And when the robin’s song has been sung,

I know that Spring has sprung.

When hyacinth blooms hang like capes

Green tendrils shoot toward the sky

Muscari resemble bunches of grapes

And the pinkies let out their first cry

When I’m sad that each day is done,

I know that Spring has sprung.


I concentrate
on the sacred song of water whistling
through time-eroded rocks, the rushing of life above.
Twisted ash stretch and shield,
a barrier to my soul and comforter of life.
Stillness collides with chaos.
I am an intruder, bolstered by
incoherent conversations between trampled spirit
and winds of indecision leaving me empty.
Standards of such sacrifice are meaningless
when destiny is indisposed
and faith has washed downstream.
This vast collection of inadequacies
corrupts my mourning soul
with revelations of daily existence.
And I wonder what grace really means.
Does a heart restrained by betrayal hold
the capacity to feed the multitudes?
The moan of a lone brown trout
says, it is finished.
I demand, Who is in charge?
Truths are vital when facing the grave,
yet I fail to listen for the answer.
Soothed by connection,
that lullaby of temporary sustenance,
I am not prepared for imposition of soul.
Wisdom whispers, You may not barter.
But the leaves of my existence argue.
My core cries for validation,
I have no song, tears melding in unity
with the river’s flow.
Reach into the depths.
Find me. Find yourself.
Words, not my own, resurrect me.
Holy song of praise shatters deception.
Sunlight glistening on the surface
reflect all that is possible.
Echo rises through my bones to waters’ rush.
I reach to welcome my broken self.
From the profundity of darkness, I see
I am not finished.


Words scratch like a cat at the door
and leave a lingering sting like nettle.
Though she knows they aren’t true,
she wonders if others think they were.
After all, teenage girls live by the words of others.
Teenage girls gossip and sling untruths
like boys sling rubber bands and spitballs,
and no one is the better for any of it.
The one left out hangs her head low.
Her face reddens among the whispers
as she always thinks it’s about her.
Lies. Exclusion. Whispers.
Cliques are all about them.
The ones who do it?
They live in fear.
Fear of becoming the one
who is lied and whispered about,
the one who is left out.
And still, teenage girls live by the words of others


Flickering like a flame in the wind,
it dances before our eyes
and flutters across our hearts.
We can’t quite grasp it,
yet we can never let it go.
It’s a warm breath on a crispy morning.
It’s the cool breeze on a smoldering day.
It seeps in like needed rain
into the crevices of dry cracked earth.
Evasive and fleeting, at times,
it scoots in and out of the shadows.
It fills us and sustains us for the moment.
It seems we are always standing
on the edge of hope.

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