A sun kissed morning,
the love lightens
the limitless sky as it rises
and the rays as ribbons
of light and color
fall slowly from the sky,
silently a flower blooms,
the birds excited,
mountains touch seas
that bathes the soil.
Undeniable miracle.
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“And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun.”
Act 3, Scene 2, Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare
stalking the sun
moonshadow
overtakes a blaze
a brilliant crescent of the furnace sun
penumbra of celestial movements
as the shadow spreads
like a silent bell
like the eyes of a wolf closing slowly
in the summer dusk
stealthy in the daylight sky
moonbreath
respiration
like lifting of the deep green leaves
grown fat with summer
breath as silent as a hungry cat
moving slowly on
the flaming prey
moonfrost
the curtain cool with darkness
spreads its shade
sending thoughts of sleep
into the darkening air
to the obliging beasts
who sleep when cool dark
comes
moonsong
we stand below
we listen
through the hush of glasses
shadows humming
whispering like silent snow
music soft behind our shaded eyes
moonfire
as the moon arrives
the solar rim ignites a
crown, corona
dogged moon scrapes
its ragged rim
conflagration
blazing beads of fire
and thoughts of diamond rings
and then
totality
On the far sea horizon,
a mirage of light ships,
a trick of my eye,
for only I can see them.
No human mariners
can be on board
such luminous craft,
such unearthly vessels.
High on a mast, beams a lamp,
winks, sends a crystal signal.
Five colours I count,
sapphire, red, green,
violet, blue.
Advanced aeroplanes,
silent, otherworldly
helicopters,
for a few moments,
in a wider expanse,
circle above them,
vanish with seagull cries.
Suddenly, sand
feels hard beneath my feet,
my body numb, empty,
my eyes clean, certain.
Vision of light ships
swept away
by natural cloud,
distraction of waves,
seaweed tangle
on the shore.
Finest hour to honor her.
The clock is silent under Evening’s hand.
Her voice will soon sing out
over insistent crickets.
They cannot keep
her crackle of footstep
through dying leaves
to steal the first pumpkin.
Happiness is quiet too.
We are waiting for her.
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This year’s harvest
could’ve fed the hungry,
if the deer hadn’t eaten the
tops off the okra stalks.
If the grasshoppers didn’t swarm and
eat every green thing I had planted,
except my cucumbers.
The potatoes stayed underground
during the blight and survived.
Several rain showers helped to bring on
more leaves on the base of the okra stalks.
We are hoping something doesn’t nibble
on the yellow blooms peeking out for a second chance,
so they can hopefully present themselves.
Wild honeysuckle,
overwhelmingly sweet scented
childhood memories. Sucking
down sticky drops of nectar.
Dodging yellow jackets and
bees competing for same.
A bramble of multiflora roses,
our fortress against the invisible
enemy. Battling monsters in a
stick-sword fight of epic proportions.
Rolling down grassy hills.
Splashing through woodland streams,
searching under rocks for crayfish.
Days that would go on forever, a
single scent brings them all back.
The pungent aroma of wild honeysuckle.
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