Gray waiting winter hovers low, tucking the cold earth tight beneath cloud covers till spring flings them back, leaping from its rest, and shaking winter’s hold.
Tag: nature poem
Early Flight
The birds are just waking up In the dark of predawn As we head to the airport To fly with the sun. And when I come back from Dropping the travelers off, I meet a small earthworm Who’s just taking off. As I walk to my door, The crickets are choiring, The birds are conspiring, …
Southern Diamonds—Seven: “I Will Have a Garden”
I will have a garden, Even if it’s small, Will till the ground That winter hardens Until my plants grow tall. I will grow a garden, Even when it’s hard, And raise my seeds And weed these weeds In my little yard. I will give my garden: What it blooms and bears This year—and bear …
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Midnight Lightning
The treetops are black, Backlit by purple-white lightning That ripples across the night. Then comes low, distant thunder, As if the night is mumbling, Clearing its throat with its rumbling. A chime clangs in the dark Like a ship’s bell in a storm, Heralding something, perhaps to warn. The treetops are black, Backlit by purple-white …
Porch Speed
When you think the day is Almost over, Go outside onto your porch. You’ll find there’s more That’s yet to come Once you slow to watch the sun As it sets in radiant seconds That spin into minutes and send Clouds along so fast It’s almost in time-lapse. Only when you slow to porch speed …
Early Autumn Drive
The road rises and falls ahead of me, Dusty gray asphalt shouldered by the Pale burnt orange of summer grass That whispers dryly as I pass. Down the center of the road between the pines, I notice how the mustard double lines Match the nodding goldenrod and Black-eyed Susans that stand Tall along the highway’s …
Summer Jazz
Insect rhythms rise and saw Beneath a half-moon midnight sky— Here a steady cricket’s chirping whir, There a syncopated shaker or an Intermittent washboard whisk. The invisible ensemble revels In jazzy solos and calls and responses, Weaving countless lines into a warm blanket Of song without a breath of silence— Incessant until the inscrutable conductor …
The Hour of the Dragonfly
It’s the hour of the dragonfly. Have you seen it? I have. It’s the hour when dragonflies wing their way in sparkling iridescence over baked green grass and sidewalks shimmering with heat. They land for brief moments before skimming onward, disturbed by my walking too near, or by some inscrutable shift in the thermal currents …
