Low clouds loom, dooming twilight
into gloom, dusk into the blackness of a hidden-moon
nocturnal tomb.
Garish winds grow more incessant,
effervescent, iridescent;
raging, though irrelevant as I
insist on lingering, beneath the skies that ravage me;
notwithstanding tendencies to
gravitate toward calmer seas.
With July’s record-breaking high temperatures here, it’s been frustrating and – truth be told – rather depressing to watch flowers in my native plant garden wilt before reaching full bloom and then turn end-of-summer brown without setting seeds.
What happens, I wonder, if annuals can’t reseed themselves? What happens if birds and other critters have no seeds to tide them through the coming winter? What happens when spring pollinators show up and find but a few flowers to feed upon?
I do what I can for my small domain. I water the roots of my plants; can’t do much for the sunburned leaves. This fall I will plant more natives. In the winter I will feed the birds. Next spring, I will build a fountain of some sort to provide reliable water for thirsty creatures passing through my yard.
Sometimes my efforts feel quite satisfying, like I’m giving back to the planet. Lately, it just feels like someone trying to extinguish a forest fire with spit.
leather brown leaves curled
fists shaking at the August sun
give us a reprieve
The first day of summer dawns hot and dry; not like it used to here in the moderate Pacific Northwest of my youth. The air outside is stifling, so I stay indoors listening to the hum of the fan and worrying about the young plants in my nature garden. The shrubs and berries and grasses – all native to this area – are not supposed to need supplemental watering because they are acclimated to thrive in their natural environment.
But this climate, altered to unnatural heat and drought, is not what Mother Nature signed on for when she gave us the delicate mosses and ferns, the soft evergreen needles, the supple, shiny leaves of shrubs like snowbrush and Oregon grape.
This evening a breeze will pick up and give at least the illusion of coolness to the air. I will visit the garden to make sure the ladybugs, bees and butterflies have water in the little pool I made for them. And I will utter an apology on behalf of my species for the damages this planet has endured. The rain, when it comes, will be happily welcomed.
Imperceptibly,
summer solstice pendulum
pauses, shifts, recedes.
Smudging windows with your nose,
Marring floors with dirty toes,
Shedding on the furniture,
Crud you’ve rolled in cakes your fur.
Snoring, scratching, snorts and whines,
Odors one cannot define,
So many things best left unsaid,
For now, it’s late. Hop in my bed.
“I wonder if I – “
“It wouldn’t work.”
“But what if – “
“You can’t. No training; no expertise.”
“But – “
“Can’t afford it.”
“I’m curious,” I say. “Do you even know
what we’re talking about?”
He glances up from the newspaper.
“Does it matter?”
As my native habitat garden takes shape, I’ve been drawn to it almost daily. In the wet fall I checked for problematic standing water at the base of the young crabapple tree and marveled at the resilience of rain-battered kinnikinnick. In winter I fretted over snow-covered Oregon grape and ice-encased flowering currant.
As spring unfolded, I searched bare twigs for the slightest hint of green, watched tiny sprigs rise from the ground and swell into verdant foliage; and now – finally – flowers are maturing, bugs are pollinating and wild strawberries are sending out runners to claim yet more ground.
I always considered autumn to be my favorite season with its crisp rain-filtered air, crunchy carpets of fallen leaves and trees dressed in flame-inspired palettes. Now, I believe my favorite season is whichever currently holds sway over my everchanging garden.
lupines point skyward
blooming flower moon beckons
who will eclipse whom?
For dVerse poets Haibun Monday: flower moon.
[to the Tune of the Tennessee Waltz (two-three) (one-two and-a)] When I was Seventeen High school band Agony Playing the French horn, you See (two-three), (one-two) while the Rest of the Instruments Soared with the Melody I got the Slow after- Beats (two-three) (one-two). Chorus: I re- Member the Days in the Stuffy band Room as the Teacher's baTon counted Three (two-three) (one-two) I would Wait for that Moment when my French horn would Shine as I Sweetly played Two after- Beats (two-three) (one-two) instru- Mental interLude here. Find your Horn, play aLong dear, and Soon you will See what I Mean (two-three) (one-two). If you're Lost in the Melody Listen for Me and I’ll Carry you Through to the End (two-three) (one-two). Oh the Waltz would start Playing with the Saxophones Braying, the Oboe would Try to com- Pete (two-three) (one-two). Clari- Netists’ reeds Squeaked as the Flautist's breath Peaked, and the Trombones’ spit Rattled and Leaked (two-three) (one-two). Chorus: I re- Member the Days in the Stuffy band Room as the Teacher's baTon counted Three (two-three) (one-two) I would Wait for that Moment when my French horn would Shine as I Sweetly played Two after- Beats (two-three) (one).
dVerse poetics: Meet the Bar ~ Waltzing
Today’s poetry challenge at dVerse is to write a palinode. As host Grace explains:
A palinode or palinody is an ode or song that retracts or recants a view or sentiment to what the poet wrote in a previous poem... The writing challenge is to write a palinode. This can be in relation to a poem you have written before (please link or include prior poem)...
Whose legs these are I think I know;
Encased in jeans all winter, though.
Today I’ll shave, first time this year!
The spring reveal: legs white as snow.
These legs of mine I will not show
Although it’s spring, it’s way too cold.
I’ll not yet shave as legs with hair
Are warmer than when they are bare.
You slip into the crook of my arm as I recline on the sofa, your diapered bottom cradled like a football. I can feel your body beneath my hand rise and fall with your breathing. You – most likely – can hear my heartbeat as your head rests peacefully on my chest. I could, I think, sit like this forever.
Budding hearts of spring.
All is new; life pulses through
Veins and vines and views.
______________________
Whose legs these are I think I know;
Encased in jeans all winter, though.
Today I’ll shave, first time this year!
The spring reveal: legs white as snow.
What Rhymes with Stanza? 