rain clings to the fragrant cedar boughs
sparkle with lightning
percussion of rain
on the metal roof
Spring’s syncopated beat
deep pewter skies
dissolve into tarnished silver
rain on the water
clouds sit on my windowsill
waiting for me
to gossip about the rain
It was the second spring in the old farmhouse,
you seeded the open meadow with red clover.
A common cover crop,
it did just that,
covering the slope
in luxurious rich deep green
trefoil leaves ,
topped by scarlet globes
of soft feathered blossoms.
Honeybees, intoxicated with
sweet perfume, staggered in the warm spring breeze,
humming their drunken songs
in sweet unison.
The bees song bewitched us-
a sirens song.
we walked across the meadow,
thigh high in clover
and waist deep in bees,
The hillside undulated in apian waves,
shimmering with invisible wings.
The sound of a million bees
their voices so deep,
it echoed in our bodies.
We held our hands out to feel the vortices of their wings.
We were carried in a wind of wing song to the top of the ridge.
We were golden with pollen.
The honey was rich that year-
and filled with the song of a million bees.
A beautiful afternoon is always more beautiful in an April garden. The columbines are putting on a colorful display in such wonderful combinations. A blue is blooming, lots of mauve and lavender, a few frilly white blooms and many double blossoms again this year. Our favorite is a small salmon and yellow bloom on a tall slender plant- a wild columbine from seeds we harvested on a walk a few years ago.
My large hosta, for some reason, (probably chipmunks!) has not returned. I dug where the roots should be and no sign at all. That may be one purchase I will make this year – a few hostas to fill in the center of the garden.
Our baby dogwoods are growing with abandon – and we had 18 blooms across the three largest trees this year! Yea! We will move a few of the trees out into the yard this fall. And the two redbuds will be moved to flank the western edge of the garden.
Big fat bumblebees were very busy working across the garden and making their acquaintance with each bloom.
This weekend, we will head to the garden center for lots of flowers and plants to fill the pots for the patio. Then all that is left to do is enjoy the beauty. And water and fertilize and deadhead and weed and weed and weed.
Green is the color of April-
pale green of tender shoots,
deeper shade across the heart shaped leaves,
sprinkled with petals of all flowers
on the path of the dancing honey bee.
the little dog and I watch
the waxing crescent descend transfigured
by the light of the evening star translucent
in its beauty transpire
coming to light
the descension of the pale crescent moon transfiguration
sudden emanation of radiance
Venus in the western sky
I find a comfortable spot to perch
at the crossroads.
My dogs mill about, running down scents
of critters, small and furry.
Dust settles as the evening stars rise,
and coolness spreads from the dirt road,
smelling of undergrowth
or long lost tombs.
send the pack out to tree
the foraging raccoons and rat tailed possums.
Their wild baying rounds back to the east
as the horned crescent mistress rises-
the pale moon
casting her light across the threshold,
the entrance way.
I light my twin torches
**** Read a prompt suggested by Bjorn (https://brudberg.wordpress.com) to take the meaning of your name and weave a poem around it. My name, Kathleen, may be from ancient Greek of the goddess, Hecate. Some of the things associated with Hecate are crossroads, the moon, dogs, two torches, tombs and the underworld.
As I butter the bread for morning toast,
its symmetry and perfect slices
makes me long to bake bread.
yeast and flour, dusty white clouds
drifting across the counter.
I can feel the satisfying sensation
of kneading supple dough-
its heft and lightness of air filling
the essence of leavened life.
I will form
the fragrant dough into strong rectangular
loaves for slicing or long legged baguettes,
perfect for sharing around a pasta dinner,
crowded with friends and family.
Or maybe it becomes
unkempt round loaves, rustic and comforting.
Baked in the fire,
the crust of this earth will be mottled
or seeded with the tiniest bit of burnt edges,
from having been left in the hot oven,
for just that moment too long,
when I was waiting for the next word to rise.