Sounds of Spring: poem by John C. Mannone

image by Tolu Oni, on Pixabay

Sounds of Spring

Accolade of morning sun piercing the darkness of winter

Bees buzzing around Queen Anne’s lace: cymbals and umbels

Crocuses shouting in Amarillo yellow, announcing spring is here

Daffodils, too—music to the eyes... and to Wordsworth’s ears

Echoes of pileated woodpeckers drumming tulip poplar trees

Frenzy of green maple leaves cheering in the chlorophyll breeze

Grasshoppers and crickets flex, stridulate bow-leg violins & tympani

Hurried flutter of robins scratching the ground for early worms

Indigo bunting trumpeting a striking blue, majestic

Jonquils bursting forth in boisterous beginnings of the season

Kudzu rallies from sleep overshadowing the voice of trees crying

Liquid tongues, the gurgles of streams speaking in every dialect

Mountains proclaiming the magnificence, and who made them

Nimbostratus opening its silver-gray lining; nothing’s more sonorous:

Orchestra of a spring rain on a tin roof, a symphony

Petrichor, the breathing in of joy; peepers celebrating the after-rain

Questions wisp in the awakening, in the yawning of morning matins

Raccoons rummaging my backyard, in pairs; the clatter and chatter

Squirrels chortling at bluebirds; chirping at cardinals

Tumble of fresh-cut grass watermelon-ing the air

Unzippering dawn: spilled splashes of scarlet and persimmon rhymes

Venus singing on the ecliptic, Mars and the Moon in harmony

Whispers of the stars—hosts of heaven—angelic praise

’Xtraordinary night, even the darkness laments and prays for morning

‘Why’—why is it so silent? Put your ears close to its heart, listen

Zigzag lightning signs to the deafened thunder, so it can be heard,

that small still voice

*

A Bouquet of Flowers

Louvered sunlight sweeps over the summer

bouquet lush with bright warmth, a softness

that smooths out the roughness of memory,

offering an elegance to the blooming chaos,

a world on fire, sprouting beauty from ashes,

a fragrance of joy to supplant the mourning,

and dressed in a garment of praise, of sun

that blinds the wide-eyed despair.

Sunflowers and roses, daisies and peonies,

dahlias and lilies offer comfort in their loud

silence bursting through the daily hiss, and

the rasping past that thorns all sensibilities.

How is it possible? Despite belief that doubt

still creeps in like a weed that strangles or

rushes in like a late August hurricane that

drowns the heart and all the flowers, just as

in the days of Noah, there is a drowning

but in a sea of lies spewing from mouths of

politicians who claim to know better than

the scientists and doctors.

Where have all the flowers gone? To adorn

the graves of the children and the innocent.

There’s too many shootings on campuses,

malls, nightclubs, and road-hog highways.

And on the hospitals in Gaza, or apartments

in Kiev. The flowers cannot grow in black-

smoked dirt or thrive in pulver and rubble

of bombed buildings, or in fallow ground

stripped of hope.

In the middle of the living

room, a vase, a bouquet of flowers struggles

to remain alive and vibrant.

I am one of those flowers drinking the water

of hope, the sunlight of promise.

_____________________________

John C. Mannone’s Christian-infused work appears

in Windhover, Heart of Flesh Literary Journal,

North Dakota Quarterly, Poetry South, Artemis, Windward Review, and others. Awarded a Jean Ritchie Fellowship (2017) in Appalachian literature, his five full-length collections include the Weatherford

Award-nominated Song of the Mountains (Middle Creek Publishing, 2023) and the Tennessee Book

Award 2025 finalist, Sacred Flute (Iris Press, 2024). He’s a retired professor of physics living in East

Tennessee.

https://jcmannone.wordpress.com

https://www.facebook.com/jcmannone

(April 2026 issue)