On Spring (#101)

New poem drop + latest bird photos in this typically bleak March weather.

Part of Campfire Notebook’s format is a monthly poetry feature. As I continue to work on new poetry submissions offline, I still want to share examples of my work with you. These are poems created purposefully each month to share around the Campfire.

A mourning dove returns to the powerlines to woo a partner with a bleak cry. (Photo: Bryn Robinson, 2024)

Springtime Elegy
Knitted toque pulled close,
she shoves her hands deep
into the pockets of her coat;
buried like bulbs put to sleep.

Outside is still an underpainting:
roughed-in rectangles and off-white streaks,
The intent is there, but details are lacking -
at least, for a few more weeks.

She lets out a breath, more gust than breezy,
that she didn’t know she was holding.
Saying goodbye was never easy,
even when she knew it was coming.

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The above poem first appeared here on Substack as not a poem. Rather, it was response written to one of

Nishant Jain

’s tiny stories prompts, where you write a little blurb based on one of the characters he had drawn on a page.

The original post from last March, written for Nishant Jain’s SneakyArt newsletter. (Photo: Nishant Jain, 2023)

Maybe I could have used what I had written as is¹, but I’ve also been enjoying learning new poetry styles in preparing my submissions/manuscript.²

The elegy - a rhyming (ABAB) poem on death and dying - seemed appropriate for the original text I had written.

It also struck me a bit comical to write a death poem on spring, but I had already made that juxtaposition.

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Speaking of irony, it is officially spring in Canada, which means the weather on the east coast is wet snow - lashings of rain interspersed with fat flakes. March weather is typically bleak and bleached; not quite ready to hand over the reins to its’ eager younger sprite of a sister, it asks us to pull out our boots for one last deluge. Daffodils and hyacinths are gingerly poking their heads above ground to see if it’s safe to come out. There’s still weeks before fishing season start, although we are under a month now.

Everything right now is the high-key, coffee filter skies, blank canvases of promise with only the palest tints of powder blue and grey. Like a coffee filter dipped in the edges with food colouring, we will slowly start to see a more vibrant canvas. Until then, though, I don my boots and grab my camera to welcome back returning guests and old stalwarts alike.

The black-capped chickadee is nearly a perfect round shape at his winter weight. You could almost use pi to calculate his circumference. (Photo: Bryn Robinson24)

Perhaps looking at that mourning dove, the sharp-shinned hawk was a surprise is see nestled on a trail near my house. He left not long after I paused and took a few photos, in the direction of a nest of nearby homes and their convenient bird feeders. (Photo: Bryn Robinson, 2024)

We have a number of gull species here in Saint John, but the great black-backed gull is the largest - here, or anywhere in the world. I would not want to fight one off for a French fry. (Photo: Bryn Robinson, 2024)

We came across a flurry of woodpeckers in Rockwood Park one day. I couldn’t get the pileated or hairy woodpeckers to pose, but the downy obliged. (Photo: Bryn Robinson, 2024)

First time getting a clear shot of a pine siskin, the trail to Tracy Falls nearby was a veritable eruption of their song. (Photo: Bryn Robinson, 2024)

Finally, a bit of colour. The raspberry feathers of the male Purple Finch stood out amongst the siskins and the female finches. (Photo: Bryn Robinson, 2024)

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Thanks for reading this month’s creation, friends. You can check out other poems I’ve created for the Campfire here:

Invasive Species | The Tangent Function | A Spark That Spreads | Mango | Tangled Whispers

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1. Insert bespectacled anime character holding butterfly in hand, wondering aloud: Is this free verse?

2. Which are going well - I’ve been accepted into two anthologies!