Spring Song

Barefoot Spring
Flaunts her petals,
Sells her wares;
A new ride
Down the old school slide,
Back and forth the swings;
Little feet....Little hands:
Laughter, ever after, in the wings.

Barefoot spring
Sips the wine,
Dips her curls in emerald,
Eyes a twinkle with
Glowworms and fireflies;
Music and laughter,
Music and pain,
Whispered again to the wise.

And there is a moment
When nature is dumb.
There is a moment 
When nature is tight-eyed and wary.

But Barefoot Spring
Is come and merry.
She sells her wares.
She sells her wares.

Written the Spring of 1970 by James R. Hoye

Within The Season Of Renewal

One time, I thought my true-love's call
Across eternity,
Far sweeter was and dearer was
Then any sound could be.

But then, young spring-tide filled the air
With perfume and with song.
It seemed to fill the empty void,
My life had been, too long.

For suddenly, there came to me,
Upon a virgin wind,
Fresh blossom smells and wood-lark trills
To which there seemed no end,

And, though I still found time to pause,
Where she was softly lain,
Soon, joyous spring drew me away,
To wander with the wind.

Written in the Spring of 1970 by James R. Hoye

Autumn

Faint the sun,
Faint the blossom smell,
Faint the colors,
Faint, as well,
The sonorous ringing of the bell
In some grey church house
Far away.

All summer long
The flowers grew;
I brought water;
I pulled weeds.
And now, I see the petals fallen,
Now, I see the fallen seed.

The leaves need raking.....
See them lie.
The red, the golden
Catch my eye.....
First one, then many,
Hear them sigh.
A breeze is stirring,
Hear them sigh.

The trees are barren.
The limbs look old.
A few leaves linger.
A few leaves hold.
The twigs are trembling.
Are they cold?
The church bell peals forth,
Soft but bold.	

Written the Spring of 1965 by James R. Hoye

The Turning Page

Some time before,
In the first green garden of the world,
The Gardener, Himself, 
Stood knee deep in the soil,
Toiling over the primal seed 
Which he so prized.......

It grew before His eyes 
Until its strong hewn limbs
Had made His garden fair,

So he watered carefully day by day,
And when the leaves had done their work,
Providing for the long and lonely night,
He let them fall,
That young new leaves,
Might newer burdens bear;

But He was not uncaring
For those who served Him well......

The sages tell us 
That he set the fallen leaves to rest
Upon the blessed soil 
Until that time when they could share 
The final fruit
Which they had earned through honest toil,

And thus He made them mute.

*********
				
In the quiet of the frosty wood,
Where empty branches hang on air,
I have seen the leaves lying on the ground,
And have, in fact, observed their falling;

And even had I not,
I could not void the fact that I have heard
The whisper of the wind in calling
Each and every leaf by name,

Until they rustled gently on the ground,
Expounding freely how it felt
To color gold and brown and red,
Knowing beauty at the cost
Of letting life grow cold.
		
And had that proved
Not proof enough,
I knew that living leaves
Would rather color green than red.

Enough! Enough!

Appearing dead,.
Their lifelessness had startled me,
Because I am afraid of death
And fear the wind that tears my soul
As surely as the breezes tear
The leaves from every tree,
To launch them, quite unwillingly,
Into the void of that which may
Or may not come for them or me.

********

The first exploring flake of snow,
Fell and rested on my brow,
To be a magnet, draw my eyes.
To fill them, not without surprise,
With kindred flakes, a multitude 
Of white invaders to the wood,
Whose purpose was to vanquish me
And kiss the last leaf from the tree;
To cover all that fell before,
‘Til Earth was just a crystal floor
O’er which my feet would slip and slide.

They caught the tears I might have cried
And brought white comfort to my soul.

I left the wood self-satisfied,
Still thinking of the leaves below.

Written in the Fall of 1964 by James R. Hoye

Winter

Soft are spider weepings made of snow,
Like thistledown,
And soft they fill the air.
Light....with cold authority,
They claim the ground,
And leaf....and tree;
The fair and not so fair.

To this, the young are drawn;
To dreams of white,
(With form unformed),
To mold this cloud,
To laugh aloud.
T'is oh so thrilling cold and warm.
	
Their muffled faces to their sleighs;
To skates....to boots....mid mother's worries.
Old youth....Young age....
The same in play.
Tongue catch the whiteness,
Cold as clay.

And fall the white oblivion the more,
Quick....alive....with joyful fluttering.
Call children forth to happy putterings
Sent from the North.
Warm the hearth.

‘Tis Winter falls on Fall. 

Written the Spring of 1965 by James R. Hoye

The Chill Of Winter

The chill of winter is upon us,
Not the hush.
In this land of rain and wind,
What silence there is, is summer's.
Having come to my third and thirtieth year,
The chill seems colder.
Not yet old....yet older.
Surely I am mocked in my age.
Where are the passions that rage?
Where the images pyrning from my mind...
The frenzy of intensity?
			  
My voice is still.
My mind seething..holds no images.
No exercise of will, 
No relaxation of the soul
May coax the words to flow.
The marrow chilled. 
Chilled the mind.
Soul season mated to the true.

Age spirals unto age as phase by phase
The mind engages earth, air, fire, water....
Embracing fools, embracing sages.
Time turns and gyres to the end
Spewing forth.....nothing.
			
Yet ends are but beginnings, perhaps....
Perhaps, dichotomy breeds choice,
And spring the season of my voice....
Is that a songbird I hear singing?

Winter lays cold upon my soul,
Yet, barefoot Spring is winging.

Written Sept. 1976 by James R. Hoye