Spring is here . . .

 

Fruits that ripe in Spring

The following poem was inspired by the novel, "The Dutch House" by Ann Patchett, a story of two siblings, a brother and his sister over their lifetime and generations.  I see the relationship between Maeve and Danny as kids at "a ripe time."  I wrote in my review of the book on Goodreads that Danny does not grow as an adult and his relationship with his sister does not grow much farther beyond his childhood years.    [https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/3899905131]  

Read my recent book reviews on Goodreads.  Find me as Leih: https://www.goodreads.com/review/list/23237101?ref=nav_mybooks

My poem has the 3rd line in the 1st stanza repeated throughout, "And I could not go to a time before it ripe," which means I cannot stay as a child forever; in other words, I have to grow as an adult.  Ripe is symbolic of fruits ripening from trees or vines.  But as humans, we mature than ripe.  When fruits fall off the tree, they are ready to be eaten as fully-ripe fruits.  Readers may be aware of another poem with similar theme by William Wordsworth's "Splendour in the Grass," where Wordsworth describes youth as "the hour of the splendour of the grass," "the glory of the flower,"  which has been replaced by "when time was ripe."  When the time was ripe, we were young but without knowing.  Humans do not fall off a branch, they embark on their own paths which they must find.  

Time Before It Ripe

Seasons change over our lifetime,

But my senses know and see a split,

And I could not go to a time before it ripe,

 

 

Once when time was ripe,

I had all the time to idle and beat,

Seasons change over our lifetime,

 

 

But then I had been in the dark and blind,

How unlike pairs jar with clashes and spat,

And I could not go to a time before it ripe,

 

 

Nor could I redo old times,

Since then I’ve passed the stages and filled out,

Seasons change over our lifetime,

 

 

When the time comes in my life,

I’d have to be fully-ripe,

And I could not go to a time before it ripe,

 

 

I’d have to lift up to the ninth,

Not choke within limit but dart a summit,

Seasons change over our lifetime,

And I could not go to a time before it ripe.

Winter Trees  

 

Saplings spring out,

Peer out naked and bald,

Trees crop up and out,

Flat with arms that whirl in the cold,

 

 

Hands fork in and out,

Tangled black hair fit its mold,

Saplings spring out,

Flattened in the winter cold,

 

 

Limbs lay nip in air,

Flat like paper doll cut-outs,

Inflect herbs that bear,

Peer out naked with frost,

 

 

Wings mix a flurry,

Snip their torsos with a cleave,

Trees crop up serried,

Stretching its wings to secede.