This only in summer—
Time opening its dense flower face,
An old rose or here, a bright pink peony,
All day passing with others of its kind,
Basking in sun, rain, cool nights, the
Particular quiet of mid-afternoon
When even the birds
Whisper in the heat
And the peonies dream their flower dreams
Of stretching themselves
Into blossoms.
Category Archives: Nature
Peonies
Evening Meadow
Small towns are held together
by petty strings webbed across
tree-lined streets. The luckiest,
like me, live at the edge of town
and can walk away.
Tonight, past yards, fields,
the farmhouse shrine to Mary,
barns, horses, then the meadow
where one white hawk glides.
Beyond him, one white plane
glints in late sun, with his thin
white contrail following like shadow.
Beyond them, half moon against
The dinner time blue sky.
White statue,
White hawk,
White plane,
White moon, keeping company
with the meadow and me, while I walk
till my feet and my eyes
remind me how to breathe
so I can turn toward town
ready to love it again.
Sycamore
From Sycamore bark, he said.
That’s where people got the idea
for camouflage cloth.
What else could we have learned
from the Trees Back Then
when we listened and
They were so willing to talk
and be seen?
Spring Into
We roar into summer
like an ancient pickup truck
hauling that travel-trailer along.
Our plans and packed up hopes
stream behind us. Inside,
the cab is all downdrafts and tinny
music from the old transistor, drifting
out windows that won’t roll up anymore
So the world pours in.
Fabric
These days, the fabric of Time
is thick burlap that chafes
and snarls itself into knots
even as it unravels at all its
Edges. It stays awake all night,
watching for Summer.
There are stories Time heard, oh
long, long ago now, of what
will happen when Summer arrives—
Tales of transformation, highly
fanciful, hardly credible, nothing more
than fables really, myths that promise
Transformation.
but so the story goes that Time itself will
Change, become bolts of green silk,
unfolding in luxurious swathes
over this whole world, swaying free
to the music of water and wind chimes
till it covers the ground
in smooth, soft waves
for Summer to float on.
Or so the story goes.
Green Is A Color
now
green is all remember
those bare trees of winter
though I do know
they lived
I cannot
conjure them again
meaning
Spring, at last.
Advice From My Redbud Tree
Flower first
before you dress
in green and
practical leaves.
Why wait
when this very day
can be spent
covered in pink blossoms
and fat bees,
every single one of them
drunk and busy,
lopsided with joy
just to be near you
at the height of
your beauty?
Flower first.
Flower now.
Extravagance is Everything.
Cold Snap
turns us brittle.
This is not the crispness
of the first bite
into an autumn apple
warmed all summer
on its tree.
No, this is the sharpness
of long waiting for warmth
cut off just as
we dug out all our sandals
from the backs of closets
painted our toenails pink
to welcome the sun.
These toes only dream of
warm wool socks today
so brittle
they may snap.
Birds, buds, branches
Join us
and shiver
in the absence of
Spring
which opened us all
like flowers
then fled.
Weather Report For the Middle of May
Tennis players sip mugs of hot tea
between points while spectators huddle in
parkas and mittens on the sidelines
complaining about the weather when we
should be writing psalms of gratitude
In praise of these lives so sweet
where this unseasonable cold
so tangible and unimportant
is the biggest worry we can conjure.
Morning Drive Time Zen
Farmers drive muddy tractors
along the highway, hauling
disc harrows and cultivators
to break up the hard dirt
of fields frozen all winter.
In equipment not meant
for paved roads, they drive
slow and rickety.
Their students follow
in a long line of cars,
drivers late for work, learning
to appreciate the sunlight
as it falls across the wooded
hills lit bright green again
past dark fields waiting
for the plow.
All together now, hills,
fields, farmers, commuters,
Practicing patience
or not.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 