a vernal flower in the ides of the year

a crocus made of golden tears.

ashes spilled from winter's urn

snow is turned to slog as sun rises in the morn,

the march of spring across the winter-trodden fields

leaving gold and sun at its radiant heels.

patties frying on open grills,

until from the skies, the water spills.

a vernal flower in the ides of the year,

brief beauty that perseveres.

Bodies moist with sweat,

The slog of battle coursing through strained sinew.

A hand trails through chilled waters,

Casually splitting a large algae patty.

Memories of clashing swords,

Competing with fire and ash.

Parades filled with politicians,

Adorned with shiny raiments and gold.

Beware the Ides of March,

Though her crocus be bright and fair.

Many a gladiator did dream of Nature's vernal abandon,

Never to again see the sun.

Katryese Austin

(c) Feb 24, 2022

We march along our earthen slog

Like vernal crocus reaching,

Beneath the hoof of lamb and hog,

T'wards skies of gold...

And preaching,

Here of ebbs and there of tides

We squash life like a patty;

No ash to dust! There's only ides!

And lion's feeling chatty.

No ash to dust! There's only ides!

We squash life like a patty;

Here of ebbs and there of tides

And preaching

T'wards skies of gold...

Beneath the hoof of lamb and hog,

Like vernal crocus reaching,

We march along our earthen slog

And marvel at it's teaching.

Oh my friend, it’s the ides, when everything is vernal green

Can you see the head of a crocus, or two,

emerging from the fading ash of the winter ground?

We do not need to slog, for a new spring comes in our step.

It’s time to find ourselves a patty melt with cheese, but for me hold the patty please,

drizzle the gooey cheese with caramelized onions

slipped between two slices of bread grilled gold.

Let’s not forget Her winds, the lion and the lamb.

For it is March, I bet!

As the vernal moon approaches

I can hear the birds,

Feel the breeze on my skin.

The sun shines a comforting

Golden glow.

The crocus stretching their

deep colored petals

Towards the sun

yearning for the ides of March

People break free of the confines

of the constricting coats

begging the dirty,

ash colored snow to melt.

The grass slogging to be free

of the cold white blanket

to play patty cake

with the sunlight again.

I can hear the birds,

Feel the breeze.

Yes, I can feel spring is on the way.

The ash settles

as flames of gold

brighten the night

and the slog of

the shortest month

inches toward

March

Days lengthen

ever quickening

the ides of the month

anticipating the vernal

equinox

like a peppermint patty

of the last snow storm

melting into memory

A violet crocus spears

through moist soil

saffron anthers

a reflection of sun's

kiss, urging

the rebirth

of earth

I slogged swervingly to each side trying to reach for the patty. It had turned over, with it's audacious colour minced with the ash and shinny gold of the carpet. The sun aired in precisely like a laserbeam on an ides day. I should probably water the crocus in her tender vernal belly.

In my dreams, I have seen this before.

I have seen my thoughts turn to *ash*,

paling in comparison to that widening and deafening field

of fresh, *vernal* newness-

like a *crocus* just about to bloom in the *ides* of May.

And the sun looks just about as beautiful as it can

without looking it straight on.

An orb used to illuminating all that glitters.

And the *gold* that you think is yours...

Well, it is just a remnant of what used to be,

what used to be beautiful,

what used to belong to you.

And in this dream my mind turns to memories.

When life was simple.

Just a child eating her peppermint *patty*,

hoping to God that getting older doesn't feel as painful as it sounds.

And I here a voice from I don't know where,

whispering to me,

"You will *slog* through what you find difficult.

And you will meet yourself in a field of your memories.

You will embrace yourself: past, present, and future.

And you will not be found wanting."

With the ides of March upon me, I move to break through the slog of winter

I inhale the ash built up within my nostrils from months of darkness

And with a long exhale, I purge the gloom in and around me

No longer will I lust at a patty placed before me

Nay, I turn to green, covered in crocus

Each day, ever more gold

By the time the juniper blooms in the dead of winter,

It’s known, 7 weeks will have us in a vernal state.

The time has come, I shall leave my cabin and gallop among the crocus and dahlia.

Out in search of the gold.

Off I go,

Squandering the fields and prairies.

I am to slog, as the ides of March are upon us.

After foraging all day

No gold.

Nothing left to do but replace the juniper in my hair with crocus.

As I approach home

What beauty to see the smoke coming out of my chimney.

Something must be cooking.

Enter the cabin,

Looking for a lumpy meat patty,

Off the grill.

Door opens,

Ash.

In the pit of the oven.

I’ve lost again.

That is why they call me, Caesar.

Juniper is resilient. Crocus is not.

Juniper.