A deep breath comes rolling
through bushy leaves of
Spring into my lungs,
and tells me all is well.

Through an open window
lovely acrobatic trees
are dancing, delicate flowers
all alike in their kind, lilies
of air so intoxicating they make
a double bloody Mary pale!

Spring is the deep drink of youth,
running play of poets,
blind in inebriation, but golden
and natural enough to a mind,
even mine, rolling like a camera,
to see God’s gift in the young
drinking deeply in their time
from the breathing cup.

When I die don’t bury me in earth;
Indians (I’m 8% by DNA) have it right;
let us rest in open air,
true to nature, sturdy right angles
in God’s Pythagorean theorem,
in twilight with stars
easily seeing Spring,
and lovely youth and yearning;
hearing deep breaths of love
as they slowly empty
the breathing cup. 

© 2006 Donald Coonrod

Hoping for Rain

An invasion of half-tones,
slowly growing cells below
a veil of brilliant yellow blooms,
covering the bones of Christ,
rattling in loose satchels
on a wandering mule,
looking for Spring
in Death Valley.

Hear the clicking, clicking,
coming together before sleep,
a clock of mystery,
when nothing is left
but dry seeds,
a western plain hugging
the heat, hugging despair,
hoping for rain.

© 2006 Donald Coonrod