Blackberry Winter

It’s that time of year                                                                                                                      when the world is half awake.                                                                                              Upright, sure.  Eyes open, mostly.

Daffodils are history.                                                                                                                      Redbud color has come and gone.                                                                                    Dogwoods still razzle-dazzle.                                                                                                          The elm looks almost full.                                                                                                              The maple has already                                                                                                                    put in a full day’s work. 

But the mimosa out front                                                                                                                has yet to crack open an eye.                                                                                                          The walnut looks as tucked in                                                                                                          as the middle of winter.

Gaia hits snooze                                                                                                                                and back we go to                                                                                                                               locust winter                                                                                                                                     dogwood winter                                                                                                                       blackberry winter.

She doesn’t rush things.                                                                                                                  She lets this one get the worm                                                                                                         and that one sleep in.

Everything in due time.                                                                                                              Everything in its season.

© 2020 Deb Moore, All Rights Reserved

The Spring Sun is Different

The spring sun is different from the summer sun.

The sun in summer is omnipotent, omnipresent.

There is no escape from the relentless oven of the summer sun.

It WILL find you. It WILL burn you.  It WILL roast you.

A July sun in Tennessee is like being wrapped in a wool blanket

over a turtleneck in a sweat lodge.


The spring sun is different from the fall sun.

October evenings the sun is waving goodbye

from a place in the sky that seems farther away.

It is the recessing sun, the melancholy light of days gone by.

Its passing is honored by the momentary capture of its essence in a backyard fire pit

on a jacket night, under moons full or waxing or most likely waning.

The fall sun sits on the flatlands of West Tennessee and

sizzles its final goodbye as it sinks into the Father of Waters.


The spring sun is different from the winter sun.

January can be so dreary and damp.

The winter sun is often absent entirely.

They say it’s still up there, beaming as always behind a thick cover of clouds,

but I don’t always believe it.

It’s a good thing the red and green of Christmas happens in winter,

otherwise a Tennessee yule would be nothing but grey.


The spring sun beckons like an invitation.

It doesn’t burn; it warms.   It doesn’t kill; it enlivens.

The spring sun has a different light altogether,

one that brings promise and joy and flowers.

We are reminded that life goes on.

We are reminded that we go on.

The spring sun is different.


First the daffodils.

Then the tulips.  Red, yellow, pink. 

Lettuce is crisping in the cool morning air.

The cucumber magnolia sends out tiny shoots at the end of each branch.

The sycamores will make a late grand entrance, but until then there are the oaks, hackberries, and redbuds getting back to business. 

The cedar and cyprus have held a green vigil through the dark death of winter, but now they catch the fever and dance a little perkier in the breeze. 

The pine will start new quills to write the lovesongs of robins and chickadees, bluejays and cardinals.

Lavender, oregano, and mint are suddenly alive again.  

Rosemary dresses up and puts on her perfume. 

Hyacinths are bursting blue.  


The wheel will turn and spring will

become summer

become fall

become winter.

          But today is spring,

And I am bursting blue.