Birdsong

Dearest month of March
You have begun with fimbulwinter,
with fangs of icicles, in Siberian winds,
with a quiver from the beasts below
and now I humbly wonder when
you’ll mellow into spring.
I’ve fed the birds with seeds and lard
but March, it’s hard
to hear despair
of birdsong still believing spring is near.

Bird House Small by Peter Doig

A second letter for my prompt at dVerse. Also 55 words for hedge.

March 2, 2018

15 responses to “Birdsong

  1. Just had snow last night and its cold again. Love that letter to the Ms. March and hoping to hear that birdsong soon.

  2. Sometimes winter’s fingers, soft as snow and white as bone, can grip like a frost giant, especially in the long winter before Ragnarök, where I am pretty sure we are. Maybe we will get to hear the birds sing a few more times first..Thanks for this 55 word ode to the snow spirit, and have a kickass weekend if you can.

  3. March (and his previous siblings) do feel like the roar of a pre-apocalyptic boom this year. Your poem says it well, the thought of good springs to come feel like a myth. Almost.

  4. I have a similar but opposite attitude towards March – I feel Autumn in the air at night but still the temperature rises over 30C every day… We all long for season’s change, I think.

  5. March is always so temperamental and unpredictable…here too. My birthday falls on the first day of Spring, but it usually brings an ice storm, even after the crocuses are up. I loved the personification of March with “fangs of icicles”.

  6. fimbulwinter … what a cool word. I had to look it up and found it was the precurser to Ragnarak, “the harsh winter that precedes the end of the world” and lasts all year. Then the poem shifted for me because now it changed from “When will Spring come?” to “Will Spring come?” and the fear increases. I think of worries of a nuclear winter, that anxiety of regular folks like me when warmongers threaten each other for no other reason than ego, to appear the strongest. When idiots rise to power, and a push of a button can destroy the world, we can only hope for Spring and that the idiots’ time will pass and someone will take their buttons away so we can sleep easy again. For me, your poem captures these feelings along with hope, that spring will come.

  7. Thank you for fimbulwinter, although having looked it up, let’s hope it’s not that bad. Love the icicle fangs – imagining them at any rate.

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