rosy cheeked dawn-
smiles across the cove-
making the water blush
***
sweet dawn tip toes down the ridge-
leaving the newly leafed trees golden in her wake-
April morning
***
she sings songs of tulips and apricots -
lilting melodies of birdnests and starshine-
harmonies of blue skies and soft April
green
its all green
is that green?
yes
and that?
yes
so all these colors are green?
yes
why?
because its april
September 11th
How do I explain the rupture
between Then and Now.
When no Safe was Unsafe
and a September morning wasn’t filled with
Cremains and loose paper,
when only Bird Wings fluttered in the blue sky.
How do I tell you of the Fear and Grief,
Personal and Communal,
of people spirited away in dust falling from the sky
mixing with Tears that streaked on all our faces.
I wish I could explain how
our Country’s shifted Foundation
was filled with that Ash and then with desert Sand.
How we were all struck mute
as Doves became hawkish
and Hawks became harsh Patriots.
We all averted our eyes and covered our ears
as Rendition and Enhanced Interrogation
and Warrantless Wiretaps
were wrapped in Patriotic bunting.
I wish I could understand how the new normal
is now just NORMAL -
the shoeless shuffle in airports,
the suspicion of brown skin,
the lilting accents that are now ominous.
And how that September morning,
‘The War against Terror’-
(And it was our TERROR)
is now just another chapter
in high school History books,
dry as Ash and hot desert Sand.
*** I am posting this again for the dVerse prompt-it was posted last September.
In the Pond, I Saw
ribbons glisten with fragile
black polka dots of life
ribbons spooled
as though a special present
was joyfully torn into
and the wrappings left
to fend for themselves
lovely elegant skeins
filled with the future
summers evening music
of frogsong
Folk Dance
morning is accompanied by pipe and drum
sounding the sun
rattle of leaves unfurling
sharp notes of rose and gold
pierce the blue sky
filling in the quarter notes of frogsong
disharmony of dove and robin
south wind scatters
beats of tree and blossom
fresh dancers appear
in fields of henbit and sweetgrass
wreathed in lilac and rose
twined grapevines in their hair
brown rabbits leap in time
traipsing into the contradance
circling round and round and round
dancing into spring
distant bells toll -
deep sound of contemplation -
sunday morning
***
loud trilling song -
small brown wren -
sunday hymns
***
small brown chipmunk-
sitting on the stone wall -
morning prayer
hold breath
turn off the light
three quick hops to the rug beside the bed
(remember to count
one..two..three)
take a breath
leap from rug
into center of bed
(be sure not to touch the floor)
stuffed animals close on each side
cover pulled up
hold breath
listen
.
.
.
take a breath – listen
.
.
.
(no shuffling noises from under the bed)
(no taps or knocks)
make sure not to put hands or feet
out from the covers
squeeze eyes tight
sleep
*** This is for the dVerse prompt for April 13. There was a time when I was 8 or 9 when I became afraid of the monsters under my bed. I developed this routine to put myself to bed in order to keep the monsters from reaching out and grabbing me. It worked.
sound of mowers in the field-
first cut of the spring-
scent of sweetgrass
***
dancing and bowing in the afternoon breeze-
brightly colored belles of the garden -
tulips in bloom
***
afternoon in blue-
April sky, water reflecting April sky, bluebirds on the wing in April sky
warm humid air -
moving the white curtains -
evening dance
***
sound of scurrying in the grasses-
small brown rabbits leap in the field -
the yip of a fox
***
night sounds -
low hum of the refrigerator,
trilling song of frogs,
the wings of owls
Spring Fever
when the pavement sings
that blacktop song
and the top is down
on the first really warm day of spring
swinging west into the sunshine
as the thunderheads roll
onto the fetching fields of desire
hands stretch and caress those first drops of rain
pulling the living moisture
down
down
down
into the awaiting fertile earth
risking the threat of surge and flood
to lie beneath the heavy spring storm
only the thought of
pollination and ovaries
and eggs
are on anyone’s mind
who has driven into the clouds of billowing
blossoms
and been confounded with the humming
of bees
