Burgeoning
Yesterday evening far past dark
I took the dogs out for a last walk
and there were tiniest leaves
on the old lilacs, fat green buds
on the caraganas in the windbreak.
So, spring. The grass soft
for a little while, the smell of water
rising out of the earth. Moon
through high cloud, first kildeer
startling from the borrow ditch.
Dandelions raising their yellow
cubs in the lawn. In the harrowed
fields the seeders ran all night,
their cyclops lights through
my windows skimming the walls,
tucking John Barleycorn into
his bed, or spring wheat, or mixed
grass hay. Every little while,
some bird called out in its dreams.
B.J. Buckley is a Montana poet and writer who has worked as a teaching artist in Arts-in-Schools and Communities programs throughout the West and Midwest for more than four decades. Read more.