Up before wrensong,
the crescent moon and I whisper
so as not to wake the day.
She in her nightgown and I in mine,
we sit on the porch
in the cool air of early dawn.
And she listens.
I tell her of my fears-
numbering my inadequacies,
trembling in my regret,
tears flow freely
as the early morning dew.
With her sweet comforting smile,
she tells of her birth –
new moon to slim crescent,
waxing to full, rounded glory
only to wane past gibbous
into the palest slip of light
to be welcomed into the dark womb
of restful night.
Waxing and waning,
we each sigh
at the dawning sun.
minding his own business-
though I sometimes think I catch his change of mood
if just the slightest breeze
with the smallest pink cloud
ruffles his stone mane.
Mostly, he lounges while the small dog and I
take some air as they once said
about women of a certain age
with their precious pets
or maybe that was just made up in the novels
I used to read.
The walk is lovely this time of year-
each corner filled with honeysuckled bird songs
and the insistent voices
of the meadow grasses in the lake cooled wind.
Perched in the old hickory,
a tattered bowl of sweet grass
holding tiny eggs of alabaster
and anointed life.
We create nests,
cobbled together with books and corners and walks
with small dogs,
as life moves along our late afternoon paths,
past concrete lions
resting in a neighbors drive
until the next pink cloud
in the slightest spring breeze
or until the barking of a small dog
ruffles his mane.
There was a little girl that had a little curl
right in the middle of her forehead.
And when she was good, she was very, very good
And when she was bad, she was horrid.
coarser – its texture somehow thicker yet thinner
straight as the proverbial board most days
unless the deep southern summer humidity
ties it in the memory of brown ringlets
the first time it was licensed –
the girl behind the counter
changed the designation
(no longer chestnut brown
with gay auburn highlights,
luscious chocolate velvet
deep and soulful)
saying “I call ‘em like I see’ em.”
the end of that identity
clouds of tarnished silver linings
pewter and iron, steeled locks
and mercury dimes
in the fogged, foxed mirror
she was once very, very good
and happily horrid
when the occasion merited
and still can conjure up a curl or two
when the mood suits her
Blowing hot and cold, angry lovers
rush into each others arms, sparking
into existence their lightning filled
children, giants towering over the land.
Cumulonimbus pillars roiling with winds
and voices of thunder deep
shaking the still naked trees, pounding
aprils warming ground with vernal
tantrums and hailstones, cold and blue.
All this begatting and begetting
awash in the fundamental forgetting
of winter just passed
and springs just springing.
April’s hallelujah of re-creation intones
warming air saturated in pheromones .
Shedding my skin, casting off
the detritus of all winters,
I scrub the windows of my eyes
to reveal what was once true
and what I choose to be truly now.
Marked by a blue streak
across my forehead, tattooed
no more by the past.
With merlin, I grow younger
I am spring.