Micropoetry Monday: Nature

Spring was the baby that grew up green,
Summer, the girl that burned blue,
Autumn, the lady of Calico,
& Winter, the snowy governess
of the spring babe.

Rosemary was a spring chicken,
Dill, a summer squash.
Thyme was a winter memory,
& Basil, a Beat Poet,
falling from the womb
too late.

There was something for everyone—
majestic blue mountains,
beaches of white or brown sugar sand,
the painted deserts of Madeline O’Keefe,
wide open spaces of Andrew Wyeth,
for it was a nation of immigrants–
all of whom could all find a piece
of what they’d left behind.

The stars were like white diamonds,
the water, a liquefied jewel,
the sand, infinitesimal crystal balls,
for in each,
was a world.

She was not homeless,
for her home was Planet Earth.
The clover grass was her bed,
a stone,
like Jacob’s,
her pillow,
the brook,
a cleansing bath.
The moonshine was her lullaby,
the sunshine,
a gentle nudge to wakefulness.
It was a home without walls,
& a ceiling without end.

The Changing of the Color Guard

Flip-flops and tank tops,
falling apart from use,
are thrown out,
and piles of scarves and sweaters,
fuzzy soft and in need of a freshening,
are brought out.
Thick, flannel sheets are substituted for thin cotton,
and Grandma’s denim and lace quilt is shaken,
stirring the dust of time.

She reclines on the white deck chair,
soaking up the last of the summer sun,
her iced tea glass below the slats
sweating on the grass.

The crepe myrtles will fall from branches
like colorful, spring snowflakes,
as the town approaches the threshold of autumn.
Like a woman’s body,
the Earth goes through phases.
Fall is the time for exfoliating.

The changing leaves are the
last moment of clarity,
before everything dies,
or is covered with white—
a sort of lacy shroud—
shielding the bones and
the rotting flesh beneath.

She closes her eyes, sighs,
dreaming of dancing barefoot
to the bands on the beach,
of garden parties in the gazebo,
of a lightness of being
in the heavy humidity.

She sees,
as if in a hypnotic state,
the froth of the ocean,
like the top of her daycap—
her daily coffee with the steamed milk on top.

She will be trading in her
hot, gingerbread latte for iced chai,
truffles for popsicles,
vine-ripened tomatoes for winter squash.
The house will be infused with the aromas
of nutmeg and sage,
rather than cilantro and dill.

Her smile is wistful,
for every day is a holiday in the summertime’
but Christmas and all its fancy trappings,
pierces the blues of winter,
and she turns over once more
to soak up the healthy yellow,
the wind at her back.

Fall is coming soon.

All the Little Things

For all the things I am thankful for—
the silver linings that are often sewn
in tarnished gold;
for the golden globe that covers the earth in light,
the pearl that glows at night,
the diamonds upon which wishes have been made;
for the wrinkle in the sky
which separates the land from the sapphire sea
that turns emerald in the day;
for the ruby-red hearts called strawberries.

For cool tile under bare feet on a hot day,
the softness of fuzzy socks in the winter that
let me slide on hardwood floors;
for the feeling of the water mister on my face
in a park on a summer’s day,
or lying under a fan with the windows open
with the sounds of the rain and thunder—
a soothing static.

For the aroma of chocolate chip cookies baking,
filling the house with eyes-closed memories;
for pasta dinners al fresco,
by moonlight and candlelight.

For the smell of ripening peaches at a roadside stall,
and snow that’s the stuff of childhood fun;
for seventy-two degree weather in winter,
and air-conditioning in summer.

For the seashells that wash upon the beach after a storm
like unburied treasures;
for the gentle gulf breezes that tangle my wispy hair,
and the stillness that warms my skin.

For goodness for goodness’ sake,
for the playful antics of dogs and children,
and for joy that goes beyond mere happiness.

For microscopes that help us see old things in new ways;
for the technology that has enhanced communication
between friends;
for music, that touches us on a deeper level,
and for art, that moves us;
for books, that take us away from it all,
and for life, that draws us back in.

For the holidays that mark our calendars,
for the regular days that fill in, in-between—
for all are dots on the maps of our lives,
so that we can say we have been places—
that we have truly lived.

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