Cantata for Woodland and Orchestra

There, just there – where the first cellos
of March come in, before the oboes
or the ides – there, the brooding

before budding or cranes return,
before clarion brass of calendar spring,
the thing made of maple and ice,

there, that dripping, the ripping of the long,
white garment, there, the giggling
of flutes, perennial roots waking in cold soil.

At last, a roll of timpani just
before this symphony season’s end,
a thunder of freeze unfreezing.

Cymbal crash of lightning tightening senses,
there, the tension as a hundred violins go wild,
waking your lover, waking your child.

Crescendo!
Innuendo of greening in the plop
of that first drop of the applauding rain

and it’s over again – there’s a silence
so profound we can hear the stirring
of the deep unknown, and underground.

Ralph Murre is an architect and mariner, a father and grandfather, a poet and dreamer who lives at Baileys Harbor, Wisconsin. His writing has appeared in a number of journals and reviews, both in print and online, as well as in three books of poetry. He tramps the woods and shore and shares his findings with some reluctance, fearing the loss of places of solitude.