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[ poems by Amy Tilly, Joel Solonche, Suzie Taylor, Kathleen Rowell,
Esther Mfonyam, Sandra Dreis ]
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Vernal
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greening of spring onions
fermenting of fall apples
scent orchard air
buds ruffle bare branches
home hemisphere hankers
toward the sun
still-slanted light suffuses gold
in the old dog’s fur
she turns to check my loitering
in the green, gold, and still winter blue
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Amy Copley Tilly
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I wrote this on the vernal equinox, feeling the connections to the seasons and to my old dog. I was just caught up in the swirl of it all! I was down in the 100 year old plus orchard on the Blue Ridge Parkway below my house. I’ve run thousands of miles in that orchard and learned something there in all seasons.
— Amy
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photo by Amy Tilly
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Skunk Cabbage
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A spear that breaks the half-frozen
mud, it does not wait for the permission
of the sun, for it carries a small furnace
in its purple hood. Lured by the smell
like a cellar that never dries, the flies
arrive while the bees are still asleep.
Thick and veined, the leaves unfold like
the ears of a green dog. It’s a stubborn
tenant of the low ground where it drinks
the black water of the winter's end and
turns the rot of the year into a lung.
By summer it will be a ghost of melted
lace, but now it is the only thing with
a pulse in the muck, a beautiful ugliness
that stays its ground. Listen, the earth
is speaking, and this is its first word.
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Joel Solonche
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photo by Emily Solonche
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Bloodroot
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Blessed be the white bloodroot blooms,
the first ephemerals to herald spring
singing the sleeping earth awake
their faces shine open,
greeting the morning sun
as it warms the slumbering dirt
later folding closed against the darkness and
the black night air
that still shows the does’ breath as
she ambles by.
A dozen petals fall like confetti,
spilling after just a day or so of bloom.
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Suzie Taylor
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Outside has been my refuge and my home. I brought my children there and now my daughter is in Nashville, TN, completing her PhD studying salamanders. Anna and I stay in touch sharing untitled images of magic we find during our days. She, being at lower elevation than I, sent her spring ephemeral images weeks before mine appeared. I participate in Joseph Bathanti’s wonderful poetry workshops on Tuesday nights at FARM CAFÉ, and I wrote this a weeks ago. Nature is such a lovely muse!
— Suzie
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Garden Meditation
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Growing in my garden, beneath the maple trees
Are Foxgloves by the dozens- purple, pink and dusty green.
They grow like weeds, bold, wild and free.
Never where you plant them- obviously.
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My favorite fern, the Maidenhair, has stems of rich deep black,
They are fragile, native, delicate, but grace they never lack.
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The shocking fireworks of red are all the Beebalm blooms.
Their minty scent when cut will nicely fill a room.
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Lady’s Mantle catch the dew, like diamonds that will not last.
The tiny yellow fluffy flowers reach out as I walk past.
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Then there are the lilies, Turk’s Cap, Stella and roadside Day.
Bright orange, white and golden color as in the breeze they sway.
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Hellebore – a hell of a name for such a sturdy flower.
The only one who dares to bloom in Winter’s cold dark hour.
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Sweet William red, begonia pink, some random purple plants,
send rainbows of the spectrum amongst the slugs and ants.
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My garden is my meditation, to tend and wander through.
Always needing, never boring
when you find there’s something new.
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Kathleen Rowell
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I was inspired by a high school horticulture teacher to pursue a degree in horticulture. I have always found the quiet of a garden makes me smile. I talk to the plants, scold the deer and sing with the birds. My heart rests when I can smell rain coming as the evening cools. I know then all is well. This poem written at the Joseph Bathanti’s Tuesday writer’s workshop at FARM Café.
— Kathleen
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A Poem
(Mayapple)
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Hiding underneath
a beautiful green leaf,
lusciously growing beside the creek,
was the sight of a delicate white flower.
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If you were not looking
beneath the green leaves
stretching above it,
you would miss its beauty.
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Hiding underneath—
from the harsh sun,
from the strong wind,
from animals in the wild—
was this quiet treasure.
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If you were standing far off,
you would miss it…
underneath.
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Esther Mfonyam
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One beautiful evening after dinner, I received a clear message from nature. While taking my evening walk along the creek at Well of Mercy, I noticed a wildflower that immediately drew my attention. Its leaves looked like an umbrella, and underneath it was a delicate white flower. It struck me in a quiet but powerful way—this flower’s beauty was being preserved by the very thing that also kept it hidden. I only noticed it because a dear friend told me to look along the creek for wildflowers. Otherwise, I might have walked right past it. The word that came to mind as I stood there was umbrella. And I began to think about the times in my life when I have needed the “shade” of others. I thought of my family—how they have made sacrifices to protect and support me through different seasons. They have given their time—offering wisdom, encouragement, and guidance. They have given their resources—helping in moments of real need. They have given their prayers—holding me when my heart felt discouraged and exhausted. But most of all, they have given of themselves. Like the leaves over that flower, their presence has provided covering—not to diminish me, but to preserve me. May this simple image from nature remind you of the times you have provided shade for others, the times shade has been provided for you.
— Esther
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Silly Daffodilly
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Add solar juices,
and the cheddar bulbs open
wearing tiny Victrola noses
promising March melodies,
tunes uploaded to a puffy cloud
then VRUMM, drowned
by a gas mower’s throbbing drone.
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The landscaper rides a John Deere
wearing a Dash baseball cap
and reappears back and forth behind
a fat forsythia a mere ten yards away,
neighbor’s steady Friday-guy who forces
me to reconsider deck enjoyment.
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Solar juices. Victrola noses.
Miraculous quiet.
Wait. A poof. A trill.
Flowerpot to ear, my mood rekindles
as stems bow, tickle my cheek.
I listen as daffodils sing the simple
flourish, TRA-LA-LA-LA-LA,
a fine, spring madrigal.
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Sandra Brodkin Dreis
first appeared in Ravensperch. To be published this summer, 2026, in Good Dirt by Kelsay Books.
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In my mind, I could see an old ad for RCA Victor with a small dog like my Jack Russell, Jillie, listening to the daffodil shaped speaker. Sitting on the deck with my yellow daffodil, I imagined music coming from the flower like an early version of a record player. It would have to be a madrigal, but a happy one, of course. “Now is the month of Maying, when merry lads are playing…..tra la la…
— Sandra
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The healing potential of flowering plants is an integral part of the deep bond that exists between humans and nature. That flowers have the ability to heal us, not only physically but also emotionally and spiritually, is something that has been recognized and utilized as far back as we know.
— Anne McIntyre, from Flower Power
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In the beauty of nature lies the spirit of hope.
— Author unknown.
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Thank you for celebrating the month of April with International Earth Day (April 22) and National Poetry Month. And thank you, Readers, who have selected poems to share that connect us to our planet and each other. We will continue posting EARTH POETRY throughout the month of April – and beyond April as well, of course, since EVERY DAY is EARTH DAY!
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— Bill
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V E R S E and I M A G E 
Thanks and I echo that healing spirit found out of doors. It may not erase my troubles but it lessens…