A Morning Unlike Others

In 1988, while living in a cabin in North Carolina near the Blue Ridge Parkway, I came across a publication from Caldwell Community College. I was impressed with the artistry and layout and decided to submit a poem for Volume Four. This was a jewel of a poetry "magazine," printed on white cardstock style quality paper. The name appealed to me, too. Branches. I was delighted when my poem was included and even more delighted when it was accompanied by a photograph by Peter Morris whose name I knew from Boone's The Mountain Times. It was a photo of an Amish boy peeking around a barn. It captured what I liked most about the publication--clean simplicity like laundry hung on a country clothesline gently flapping in a breeze. This was not one of those pretentious modern poetry (?) concoctions where I would have to weed through a poem to find at least one image I could latch onto. Neither was it sappy in any way. For Volume Five, I decided to submit two more, one an Easter poem. Laurette LePrevost didn't give me any hints so when I saw it had been illustrated with a drawing, my delight was even greater. I didn't know if it had been especially "commissioned" for the poem or she found something she thought would fit. It's one of my regrets that I never took the time to find out or thank the artist. I did meet Laurette when my daughter took me "down the mountain" to Hudson, NC to hear Clyde Edgerton speak at CCC. I hope I remembered to thank Laurette for the sketch by Hannah Hunt. I tried Googling Hannah to see if I could have permission to use her drawing and that took me on another adventure. It's such a name in history. I was glad to discover Hannah Hunt married Thomas Grey. My mother often quoted the lines from his Elegy in a Country Churchyard. "Full many a flower is born to blush unseen and waste its sweetness on the summer air."

For your Easter Sunday, here is the poem:

April

Down the road, a child practices

"Rustle of Spring" on her grandmother's Chickering.

The small farmhouse windows are propped

by foot and a half split logs;

the arpeggios reach our cabin as if

a part of the night's programme.

The cats sit on the porch rail

contemplatively, a model audience

grateful for the warm companionly air

which brings a crowd--moles, robins, tree frogs.

Easter here is a sneak-up-behind kind of joy:

red leaf buds suddenly opened,

creek violets in a
"Surprise!" pose,

juncoes twittering at our

slow-to-see handicaps.

I hum along. Spring rustles in

and out of Amanda Beth's fingers

and joins the quiet roar

of the land reborn.

~~~~~

...may the blessings of renewal be yours...