Artefacts of youth

In my younger days, I wrote poetry. It't not that I'm against it now, and I still dabble in it, mostly in the form of haiku, but the passion for condensed emotion seems to have left me.

Worse, in the varied movements of my life, all my verse has disappeared. By pleasant happenstance, tonight I came to possess some of it again. Most of it is trivial. All of it, however, is mine. I felt inspiration, and I worked at it.

Reading it is evocative, to me, of where I was when I composed it. Some of it brings the weather, and the season back to mind.

So, I offer a piece of it up for your delectation.

Garlands

Sofly flowing over the hills
Mustard blossoms fill the rills
with the puffy gold of spring

Childish voices, shouting, one and all
O'erfill the valley's spacious hall
setting robins on the wing

Winter no more wields his knife
The world is full of blushing life
every lover now a king

Takes the mustard in his hands
Softly builds the loving bands
and gives his lass a golden ring

31, March 1993