Category Archives: Naturesque

Waking Up to Rain

The poetry of waking up to rain is more elaborate than any alarm clock. Up on the rooftop raindrop paws. An ashen sky is wrapped in gauze. Strong fingers wearing diamond rings drum your windowpane. Voice of dawn sings soft and low and shakes a silver mane. This day is lovely, dark and deep, theatrically it feigns to weep. To reel you in with charms of seep, to steal you from the arms of sleep.


Spun Leaf

The poetry of spunleafmoongriefallinglightlyglowingbrightly… red leaf ballerina-spins alone towards the ground. A perfect moon drifts into view it makes no sound. My noisy heart must learn to fall with that kind of grace. And to witness this world and its grief with such a shining face.


Seagull

The poetry of seagull is the poetry of suspension. Anachronistic Christmas ornament hung from a branch of spring sunshine. White-winged sliver of moving stillness. Grey-tipped punctuation mark parachuted into Time’s rambling sentence. No snowy dove with olive leaf this bird, so full of raucous hunger, profanity and competition. Yet surprisingly capable of peace. As we too might be — if we could only learn to rest this way. Briefly and utterly in the blue palm of a quiet sky.


Drizzle

The poetry of drizzle is the poetry of things that are barely and nearly not. A presence so delicate and undemanding it neighbors absence. Travels soft-footed as gazelle, declines to advertise. No thunderclaps no lightning bolts of publicity. Only whispers in a language of silver sentences. Listen. And try not to confuse subtlety with nothingness. Try not to waste time. A drizzle of moments is the sum of our days.


Blueberries

The poetry of blueberries rolls in summer’s lavish palm like marbles.  A sweet purple chant stains white hem of your days. Handful of un-glossed globes heaped in a bowl; their delicate wildness a twice feast, for tongue and imagination. Berries made beautiful by haze. Deep glimmer of blueness beneath a refusal to shine. Like breath-kissed mirror, clouds-in-lake, like milky eyes of newborn kitten or fog-clad sapphire.


Tides

The poetry of tides cannot make beds. But it has been trying for millennia. Foam-tipped fingers tug crumpled blanket of ocean; edges pulled taut over one shore only to slip short on another.  A grumbling, awkward housekeeper refuses to give up. So engrossed in this magnificent futile game of yank and yield (as which of us isn’t?) she does not notice the silver mirth of the distant moon, laughing over her shoulder.


Stargazer Lily

The poetry of stargazer lily if the name is lyrically insufficient is tale of mythical creature frozen by ancient curse. Speckled & striped pink tiger its beauty in stillness surreal, fierce, unrestrained. Fragrance twines through air, hangs rich & alluring as cluster of grapes. Petals stretch like fingers, point like tongues, thick with pollen that trembles like a secret. Alarmingly deep, fertile & untold.

The poetry of stargazer lily if the name is lyrically insufficient is tale of mythical creature frozen by ancient curse. Speckled & striped pink tiger its beauty in stillness surreal, fierce, unrestrained. Fragrance twines through air, hangs rich & alluring as cluster of grapes. Petals stretch like fingers, point like tongues, thick with pollen that trembles like a secret. Alarmingly deep, fertile & untold.


Kiwi

The poetry of kiwi is glow of pale green flesh beneath brown fuzz of unshaven cheek.  An ice and crystal green, exotic and black-flecked. Cut slices are uncanny irises, entrancing like the eyes of cats and Egyptian goddesses. In this world but not of it.  A kiwi is young magic, ripening, tremulous, sweet. Sporting the beginnings of beard by way of thin disguise.


Of Spring

The poetry of spring grated on him a little the same way cheerleaders did. Kicking her legs up waving flowers like pastel pompoms from every other bush and tree while the birds trilled off their series of featherbrained chants. An aggravating display of rah-rah frivolity. Summer had been in this game for years and had no earthly use for that kind of ridiculous encouragement thank you very much, and neither did he.


Day Old Sunflowers

The poetry of day-old sunflowers is the poetry of the sunflowers you brought home last evening. They have opened their eyes but their heads are still nodding a little, like children not-quite awake. They have the same familiar air of dazed reluctance and sweet resignation of someone I know when I venture to say: ‘Good Morning!’ too soon on a Sunday.