Springtime in Indiana

Spring time in Indiana

In March 2025, Indiana Authors Awards put out a call for poems on the topic of springtime in Indiana. We received a bountiful response, which means there’s a whole lot more Hoosier poetry to go around than there was just 30 days ago.

And that’s all thanks to you.

CONTRIBUTING POETS MARY ARDERY NATHAN BARNE RUDY BEER PARADISE BRADFORD JOYCE BRINKMAN SHIRLEY BUSTOS SHARON COWEN ROSALEEN CROWLEY MICHAEL DECAMP LISA GILIHAN CASSIDY HALL

SONDRA E. HAYES KEN HONEYWELL KRISTINA KELLY CHARLES TONY KNIGHT NORBERT KRAPF BONNIE MAURER HEATHER NOVAK JAYDEN RIGDON JOHN SHERMAN TIM TAYLOR SARAH VESSELY

KRISTINA KELLY

Hyacinth Introductions I half doze until The days lengthen The earth worms squirm beneath me The warmth tickles my bulb shell Then I wake and stretch Push, push Up, up Leaves and flowers I poke and I peek And I say hello Hello, birdsong on the breeze Hello, beautiful chickadees Hello, floral fragranced air Hello, sunshine everywhere I in turn open up my bloom And wait for the gardener to prune My purple fragrant clusters as boon To put on display and scent her room.

RUDY BEER

You’re Here for Another There’s dead out the eye-corner as you pass.

His tire sprouted and the airbag bloomed him red and the other car is blossoming too. But it should be better soon.

Out and she can’t stand alone because her leg is broke.

She leans on a samaritan who is calling and she is calling and maybe you could too. But a spring rain should come soon to do the work of filling those potholes and washing those stains and turning those canals into rivers and those kissing kiss harder in the rain and those crying cry into the rain and we should all sleep longer with the white-noise of sirens in the rain. But now you’re at work and late and need to get started if you don’t want to be inside on a nice weekend like this, which would be the only fresh air you could get besides the rolled down windows and the length of the parking lot from your gray Honda to this building.

It’s a spring air which is a more valuable air.

It up and downs your skin.

Rubs a smell like your first crash from bike to the pavement.

Isopropyl scrape and the band-aid never stays and it’s a window away and it is just there, it is just right there: A window, a stretch of grass, a three lane road, and a furniture store.

A window, a stretch of grass, and that tower tree too which should bud soon and all the rest. But you can not be here when those leaves fall again so you should turn your head and get to work.

HEATHER NOVAK

Beloved Liar Indiana spring is finally finally finally taking a deep breath without searing cold burning your soul smiling up at the long-hidden sun cracking windows in the car the house the heart once again discovering that sixty degrees in March is a very different thing from sixty degrees in May Indiana spring is lingering on the sidewalk on the porch on the way home it is discarding the sweater discarding the outer layer discarding the industry of winter to play

Indiana spring is a liar dumping frost and snow hiding the sun breaking our hearts only to tease us out again to breathe deep even if it burns to smile at the sky to linger to discard to open our hearts to the warmth of possibility

NORBERT KRAPF

Bird Dog Spring Released into green energy they were a trinity that splashed and bounced across creeks and fields lush with pollen, beneath trees on which buds were swelling with leaves: a boy and two bird dogs, young Queenie, older Ike, returning to a rising Patoka.

Oh unfurling, fecund earth.

Oh smells of delight, deep female joy of wet rebirth.

Oh stirring of life up and down to root and bark, recognition of what’s new and ready to break open and rise born again.

CASSIDY HALL

Her Return She stands easily walks quickly runs always leaves Her chest rises and falls, as the sun dresses her skin My longing, infinite Her exit, torture Her return, never soon enough A glimpse of her brings ease–– the breaking of the dirt for the first sprout “It’s soil, not dirt,” she tells me That first green the color of her eyes

JOHN SHERMAN

Hoosier Delights it was too soon to think of dairy queen the dark upper floor of the granary was slowly emptied of its broilers as we used our long wire crooks to catch one leg of each bundle them in groups of four per hand pass them to the men standing on the growing pile of crates full of caught chickens in their truck hundreds of legs later we tried to twist out the soreness from having to lean low to find and pull the chickens to us glad to have them gone after weeks of feeding and watering recalling the sting of being handpecked by ungrateful birds impatiently waiting their feed watching them grow from beautiful yellow baby chicks lifted out of cardboard boxes with holes in the sides into gangly pullets mimicking the junior high yearbook photos we all hate still today evolving near the end of their eight week lives into chickens worthy of lying crispy on sunday dinner platters surrounded by bowls and bowls of accompaniments made from scratch by cooks with practiced hoosier hands the smells of the familiar foods wafted through the house making us as impatient as the now deceased had been

but before we smelled the chicken frying before we readied the granary for the next batch of chicks we rode into town behind the truck of crates to be weighed on the scales at the mill and dad was handed a pink check with numbers so small for all that work then off we went with change in his pocket to the dairy queen where we gasped when he said we could get a quarter cone the largest of five and most expensive and the scratches on our hands and our sore backs and the odor of the chickens still upon us were ignored as we dipped our heads to our top swirls not unlike chicks to water to delight in twenty five cents of soft ice cream that somehow made it all worthwhile

MARY ARDERY

Decade of Daisy Spring in Indiana and it’s hotter than usual, bedroom blinds drawn to keep the house cool. Daisy follows me from room to room, relieved when I finally sit at my desk and she can settle at my feet. Soon, it will be the longest day of the year.

Soon, she will be ten. She’s a big dog, an old ten. She doesn’t know what she’s doing when she tramples the sunflower sprouts. Our gentle giant squashing the pumpkins, the peppers.

We don’t know either. It’s our first time gardening. First spring in this house.

A happy surprise, watching the yard bloom.

We’ve reaped the rewards of the old owner’s labor.

How did he tend the trumpet vine to wind all byzantine through the pergola? How did he curb the bunnies’ appetite for perennials?

Yesterday through the window, I watched you kneeling in the dirt weeding, the dog nearby on her back, rolling in the grass. The decade of Daisy. I was standing at the kitchen sink, damp sponge in my hand.

Wondering how we got this lucky.

Waiting for the water to warm.

BONNIE MAURER

Love We watched from the window, the downy and the hairy and that rare flicker, even the red-bellied. We could feed them with a dangling suet bar.

The snow never seemed to melt and we sat together, intimate with the names of birds.

Once a poet advised never use the word “love” unless—and I’ve forgotten that wise what, unless, I think, you count the birds– junco, chickadee, robin, spring after spring.

KEN HONEYWELL

March 20 Born on the cusp of spring, a Piscean soul awakens to find the Ariens already setting their fires, stirring the crabapples and croci from slumber, setting the dogwoods to yapping, the house finch rushing redheadlong into a chime of wrens chittering on the hawthorn branch, and the neighbors raking flower beds and infields, power washing, sweeping, spraying sleeping bluegrass with NPK and 2, 4D for killing the intruders—yellow menace dandelion, clumps of crabgrass, clover, chickweed, grotesque of henbit, purslane, purple deadnettle—

as if they didn’t belong, as if no one would mourn, but the clouds swims slowly overhead, and Pisces cries and glides away in the rain, dreaming of snowdrops and ice.

LISA GILIHAN

The March of the MoReL MuShRoOmS In the month of May, my father and I, set off on an adventure with hearts as light as children Behind our house, into the trees, crossing the boundaries of neighbors, slogging through damp moss A game of hide and seek had us turning over every fallen leaf, pushing them aside gently with our foraged walking sticks Until we came upon a swampy forest glen, sloping down into what was sure to be a fairy’s kingdom where MoReL’s stood guard

The tall tale told later by my father: “There they were, standing like little soldiers.”

It was a stronghold fortress protecting pixies Being the invaders that we were, we infiltrated the army, scooping up sentry men, sending unseen fairy refugees fleeing into the forest At the time it felt like a victory But now, I see it was a cruel conquest Each spring we return to the spot searching for the magic For the march of the MoReL MuShRoOmS But the slope is empty The swamp sings a sad frog song And we wonder where they could have gone

JOYCE BRINKMAN

Prone to Plant I never matriculated at Ag school.

Never schooled in the production of seed. Yet something draws me down to ground with trowel and secateurs to nurture plants and pull out weeds. Like in a seed, inside a casing there lives a code that all growth feeds. One tells a seed to be a turnip, one paints a broccoli green, while deep in this human body anatomic voices whisper “plant and weed”. I feel that code when winter’s ending turns my thought to smells of earth.

I can’t escape the garden’s siren buried long before my birth.

ROSALEEN CROWLEY

Spr-IN-g Look at the word Spr-IN-g.

Do you see the State of Indiana’s abbreviation – IN between Spr and g?

A soft “s” sound followed by a harsh “p” sound passes through the lips with a “r” sound reverberating at the beginning of the word.

The silent g sound at the end hides its harshness and focuses on a monophthong /I/ in IN. Here, in Zionsville, Indiana, tiny buds break through branches of maple trees on Maple Street.

Roots dig deep, complex, complicated renewals.

Leaves emerge, awakening to the light.

Elm Street Green with its fifteen acres of park has changed back to green.

Here, in Zionsville, Indiana, The birds are chirping outside my window.

The chairs are resettled on the porch after a long winter.

The groundhog saw its shadow back in February and daylight savings has brought hope of longer evenings.

Patience and belief in regrowth are needed to put Spring back in our step.

For what is Spring without hope?

JAYDEN RIGDON

Worth the Wait Sitting in a drawer, forgotten and isolated I didn’t know what was to come Occasionally, the drawer would open But I would be pushed to the side It isn’t time yet I would hear Hope flourished in my tiny packet I knew something was coming and I had to wait When the day finally came, my excitement shoved me right out of the darkness I was opened and scattered on a rough but smooth terrain and a layer was placed over me like a blanket I was finally free I could feel I was where I was meant to be The blanket above me soon became damp and I could feel the liquid soaking my skin It made me flourish and dance under the blanket, but I could feel I wouldn’t see the light just yet I needed time; minutes, hours, days However long until the universe said I was ready Are you ready, little one? It said to me, its voice like a whisper I felt a shudder split through my body, It’ s time Erupting from the ground, the sun blinded me, but the world felt so clear The birds were singing, the wind was blowing, the time had come I was home This is what I was meant for Listening to the breeze and dancing along with my petals under the sun Welcome home

SONDRA E. HAYES

Spring in Indiana Thundering contractions awaken her in the middle of the storm Snowdrops upon her brow soothe her pain Warm breezes and rain quench her thirst Lightning illuminates the atmosphere Sunshine dries her winter bed of fallen leaves Pushing forth fragrant daffodils, bleeding hearts, tulips, primrose, and forsythia from her loins Choruses of blackbirds, thrushes, robins, and warblers celebrate the birth of SPRING Bringing forth new gifts of life for all to share

SARAH VESSELY

tell me it’s spring i see the leaves grow back on trees and hear the songbirds sing it’s warm enough to roll the window down in my car, being able to hear all the sounds that tell me it’s spring when the flowers bloom and sunscreen is stocked in stores whether it’s the fresh rain falling from the sky or maybe even an old neighbor out to say hi going for a walk because the weather is so nice i stop at a lemonade stand, no matter the price because that’s just what you do because that’s just what’s right when it’s finally spring time in indiana

PARADISE BRADFORD

Spring Into Parenthood!

Spring in Indiana feels like change— The Blooming of a flower or blooming of new life.

Like the earth cracking open, raw and strange.

Like the first deep breath after a storm, Or the birth of my babies brain.

Like hands in the dirt, trembling, warm.

I was just a child when winter fell, Lost in the cold, too scared to tell A seed was planted, growing inside.

Like a beautiful rose, blooming in front of our eyes.

The world that I was breaking ground, That life was shifting all around.

And now—new cries, new hands, new eyes, A tiny heart beneath blue skies.

The world still feels too big, too fast, as I look at my new flower, Planning to water without fears.

With just the right amount of love, Like the right number of sunrays, Here we are growing like the Indianna corn fields.

The rain is heavy, but so am I, Carrying love I can’t deny.

And though the road is cracked and torn, Something in me is being born.

My tears are like rain drops from, May Spring showers.

Pain comes out, but grows into FLOWERS! Spring in Indiana—mud and bloom, Hope and fear in the same Pretty Passionate Hands small room.

A bright light breaks through, Like the sun!

Springing to Parenthood: growing so young.

SHARON COWEN

Spring in Indiana Spring is high Maintenance— Like a woman with Too much jewelry.

Preferring shades of Green, white, and pink and red, Accessorized with yellows, blues, and lavenders, --She does do her own Make-up.

CHARLES TONY KNIGHT

Three Spring Haiku In honor of my Great and Late Uncle, Literally World Renown Etheridge Knight

A Haiku for Spring For Spring Renewal Your Best - Trust God for the rest Philippians - Four A Second Haiku for Spring New Spring and Old Truth Go ye therefore and teach all Matthew Twenty Eight A Third Haiku for Spring “THE” Spring Sacrifice For God so loved the world that...

Saint John 3:16

TIM TAYLOR

Waking Hello Spring, it is so great to see you!

Man, I had the worst dream this long winter.

Suddenly, we were fighting with our friends!

And other friends were begging for our help!

But angrily we turned and walked away.

And then we were bombing, bombing, bombing these innocent women with their children.

And thousands of people were losing jobs!

And I kept thinking I have to wake up, This can’t be real and I have to wake up!

And then this morning when the sun came up I came outside and here You are at last!

There are green buds on all of the maples, and birdsong has returned back to the woods, and on my skin there was a hint of warmth.

And I thought, “Spring is here, there’s hope again.

The rhythm of the Earth will save us all!”

It orbits and rotates, the days lengthen.

The sun warms all the soil beneath our feet.

And nothing that we do can ever stop You from bringing forth new life and hope!

A hope more real than all our frightful dreams.

More than the living nightmares of our days.

MICHAEL DECAMP

Two Days in April Imagine two days in mid-April Forty-eight hours of unbroken time Blackened skies and whirling winds Terror, shattered glass, and splintered trees ** Then A cool breeze, a bright sun, and blue skies Singing birds resting on scattered debris The gentle tinkle of a wind chime ** The power and subtlety of nature The strength and love of neighbors The essence of spring in Indiana

NATHAN BARNE

What does spring in Indiana look like to me Spring in Indiana is the beginning of life; the winter was a great sacrifice. It looks so nice to see God’s blooming trees swing wild and free, making space for the birds and bees. I love to see the animals faces from different places. I long to feel the warmness of the sun, it gives me laughter and lots of fun. Spring is a time where everything grows and becomes free, and it is a beauty for the world to see, and that’s what spring in Indiana look to me.

SHIRLEY BUSTOS

Indiana Springtime Winter laughed.

But it was not the laugh of Spring that raises daffodils from their long slumber.

Winter swung his white blanket a lariat held high as Spring bravely clawed through frosty soil, peeking above the ground, searching for her friends.

They were nowhere to be found.

Yet. . .

Winter, bent on winning the relentless tug- of -war bellowed through barren landscapes: Be gone with you, Oh Spring!

I will bury you forever.

Spring hunkered down, biding her time.

No declaration of defeat knowing Sun, winter’s enemy,

would cast a delicate warmth upon the frozen earth, as giant billowing clouds wrung their towels of moisture, spilling rain upon trees waking from dormant sleep.

Then. . .

A robin appeared, Head tilted close to the ground.

Anybody home, he chirped?

Hyacinth and Crocus chortled a greeting followed by Daffodil and Tulip.

Snowbanks shrank in terror then slunk away, defeated, chastened by warm winds blowing.

Mother Rabbit and her offspring, munching nascent grass sprouts, wove their way through Spring’s flowers that had clambered laboriously now swaying in the gentle breeze.

Spring’s laughter echoed along the trail of her victor’s parade smugly displaying her regal colors.