In a Mother's Dooryard
Surrounded, I sit amongst the storied trees. The skinny mammoths sway with the whisping clouds of yellow pollen, poking their tops at a sky of blue, leaving me in a splendid serenity. I get away, carelessly, lost in the counting of the ivy-leaved panels of bark, floating back to ground – awakened with a kissing surge of yellow, painting curls of gold-rod throughout my wooly hair.
Warming blankets of rays peak through the trees and enliven the stage I sit in. With a coppered bronzing turning, my pores tumble and twist – dancing their thanks to the Sun for her gift of possibility. The depths of Spring invoke a renewing cleansing, and it is here that I am baptized again – a witness of the Season.
I sit and breathe in two lungs known of Pine and of Magnolia, of dusty debris, air’s purity. I sit for a time not toc’d. My eyelashes flutter down, my muscle tone becomes incalculable. And, I smile – for only I will know this stirred glory, and only I will these emotions take.
Better a soul can any force make – even from a Mother’s Dooryard.
(© 11 April 2013
Camp Basile, Tarboro, North Carolina)
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (In a Mother's Dooryard by Ryan Conor )
Top 500 Poems
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley