Nov 25
Half the year
green tunnels
enclose the roads
and paths,
surround the fields,
plump the ridgelines,
make forest something
you must enter into,
that you cannot see through;
the fall of almost all
the green
brings back the long lines
and contours of the ground;
and contrary for a month or two
displays all the colors we can see
that are not green.
Nov 25
Nov 25
Makes your eyes ache, almost,
nowhere to settle
in the profusion of colors
and textures
extending in all directions.
Your focus narrows to a single specimen
then pulls wide
across a carpeted path
or field
where boggling myriads
of discrete gifts,
display the beauty of a billion little deaths
which enable suspended life for winter survival
whose eventual decay will feed the summer forest.
Oct 23
Getting ready for it.
With frosts and freezes in the near forecast,
it’s time to close out summer.
The last little eggplant hides shy among
the sweet yellow/green/orange/red peppers
banana variants, mostly,
and the bowl of heat, chilli & jalapeno,
and sweet poblano.
The last tomatoes on the vine
and unready clusters of red and orange cherries;
while still ripening on the sill, last week’s blacks and oranges.
Rosemary was just going from her summer on the porch
to upstairs winter quarters,
but she shared a few springs on her way,
invited herself to dinner.
Just for drill,
drained the hoses,
drained the valves,
checked the heater in the pump room.
Ready, not ready, I guess.
Winter is icummen in, lhude sing gol darn.
Everything is mowed.
Nov 26
The Ginko hangs on to the last.
Lavender leaf,
and red.
Some saplings hold on in protected pockets.
But, it’s over, really.
Except for the oaks,
last to emerge, last to drop.
It is all the leaves on the ground
that feed our surround of forest fires.
Depending on which way the wind blows,
the sun cuts through the drifting smoke in streaks
and we get warnings not to breathe.
Jul 31
The tall flowers, all at once.
![IMG_20160716_121834238[1]](https://03175fb.netsolhost.com/WordPress/wp-content/uploads/2016/07/IMG_20160716_1218342381.jpg)
A rose leaning languorously on the wire.
Everything is full out.
The day lilies go
on
and on
in an almost silly abundance.
Hydrangea row
shows no signs of slacking off
in any of the varieties.
On and on.
The timid little flowers in the rail pot have filled out.
The under story is at maximum,
from the ground reaching up among the low branches of the trees,
all the little weeds, all the middle weeds, all the giant weeds.
And this, of course, is the first sign of the end of summer
the fullness before the finish.
The first hard frost is the real end, and that could be weeks.
But all the flowering plants prepare their final bursts.
Many are done already, a few will hang on until their petals freeze.
The chimley rose saved the best for last.
Since staked up, a mowing near fatality.
No more blooms to come, but we’re going out grand.
Will even a frost take down the lemony mint from its summer-long peak?
But the gatekeeper of the herb garden does not care about seasons.
A hunk of cloudy quartz shares some faces with other entities
but marks the gatepost without concern for any of us.
Nor rain nor sleet nor hail — never mind, it’s quite all right.
I’ll just stand here and watch y’all wilt and wither one more time.
Sep 22
Fall’s upon us,
laid that maple low.
As the sugars rise and flow
and assign each leaf its brilliance,
it’s time for the changes.
After two full years without a cat,
we broke our fast with Lilly, five years old,
rescued from a cross-country move.
Oh, she holds down a lap, chases a laser, meows a little,
but showed no interesting quirks of character.
Until the other night.
We’re rethinking.
Max, four German Shepherds back, used to bite water.
Had a few kittens who flirted with the shower drain.
Never had a cat who sits in running water.
Be ready to take it and run when you tell the universe:
surprise me!
