Resurgence

I know from friends or the news that many are knee deep in snow and ice. Or dealing with burst pipes or swelling rivers. Many were without heat, light or power. Or…well, fill in your own personal catastrophe. But to begin this Weekly Poem’s blog I offer you some thoughts of the resurgence of spring. Because our own snow fall melted away and now we see the first flowers. I took my daily exercise down a lane known locally as the Relic Road and marvelled at how the moss and ferns have taken on that psychedelic green that is the sure harbinger of spring. Even though we had a big wind storm blow through last night, there was just a breeze. And I listened to all the birds. I wish I could identify species from their vocalisations. One was doing a cheet-cheet-cheet-cheet-cheet on repeat with a milliseconds pause for breath before starting again!

Here is a little resurgence of green for your week in the event that your Spring lags behind Ireland’s by several weeks.

As to the weekly poem for this Tuesday. the inspiration is twofold. Last week saw the beginning of Lent on Ash Wednesday, which brought to mind “Ashes to ashes. Dust to Dust.” Also, pandemic life in lockdown means that being constantly at home that we are constantly cleaning something. If it isn’t doing a 60 degree laundry load, then it is some surface or other crying out for attention because our world has shrunk down to our dwelling place

    

 Dust to Dust
  
 Everyday a bit of me dies.
 I am a walking CSI crime scene,
 shedding skin cells like dandruff.
 Dust. Like motes in the eye.
 Dust that stopped waltzing
 in the sun streaming through
 the fanlight over the front door.
  
 I am the accretion of fluff
 I just swept from under the bed,
 along with contributions from some others -
 human, feline, canine .
 Here lies a crescent moon paring
 of a fingernail, a tiny tip of cat's claw,
 fine trackings in from the outdoors.
  
 All our daily mortal remains lay 
 not as full exoskeleton, like the snake
 leaving behind whole seven years growth.
 No,  we remake ourselves day by day
 leaving some behind as no single entity,
 making an entire renewed me or you. 
 When in that cycle are all our cells spanking new?
  
 Meanwhile, we keep on making  dust
 and sweep, wipe, mop ourselves up.
 Until we become one with the dancing motes
 only seen when the sun shines brightly through
 the great fanlight above the front door.
 Though never settling down upon the surface
 to be swept, wiped and mopped up.
  
 Copyright © Bee Smith 2020. All Rights Reserved.