EKPHRASTIC NATURE
A PACT FOR LIFE
In a decades-long stretch across the soil
an elm reached its trunk
to another, then gently wound
itself around her.
Making sure not to deprive her
of sunlight, he bent west,
almost perpendicular
to their coiled selves,
leaving ample space for each
crown to reach its potential.
Herb lifted me from the dank shade;
in our long-term embrace
we widened each other’s vistas.
His melodies coaxed me
to reach skyward, and laugh
with the sun dappling me.
In the fertile soil of companionship,
with plenty of space to be wreathed by light
still modestly crimped by bad weather,
some of our buds reach their potential.
I AM ONE PROUD LAMA
Just look at me
recently shorn,
white as a daisy.
Haloed by sunlight,
I offer my profile
to be captured
by your gaze.
I DREAM OF IRISES
purple as amethysts,
crowning long thin stems,
rimming a pond skinned jade green
by reflected plants and trees.
Patches of sky shimmer
the wet jeweled surface.
I’ll buy a taffeta dress,
jade green, with that moiréd sheen.
Amethysts dangling from my ears,
with matching silk sash and sandals,
I’ll announce to Herb,
I’m ready, take me waltzing
by a moonlit lake.
MOTHER NATURE SAID
You, graceful and stunning blue heron,
with wings wide enough
to float you on air,
and a giraffe-long neck,
you cannot have all the assets —
so she taxed your voice,
a hoarse croak
that startles onlookers.
A LULLABYE AFTER CRIMSON FALL
Ambered grasses sprout tall
beside the mown green lawn —
a buffer between flatness,
jutting pine,
gold and orange maple,
and leafless trees
against a colorless sky.
Wide swaths of muted shades —
an interlude before
winter’s sleep.
IT’S ALL ABOUT WHO YOUR FRIENDS ARE
Cows in the distance,
small as crows,
go unnoticed by this calf
smelling mother’s breath.
Mom’s white eyelashes
fringe calm eyes.
Baby is as curious about me
as I am about her.
Mother lets me talk
and stand close to her calf.
This trusting mom
must be friends
with the farmer.
SUMMER AND WINTER IT’S MY STAYCATION
Staycation— response to gas prices making travel prohibitive
My magical home
beside a small lake,
wooded on two sides—
each dusk bats feast
on mosquitoes,
leaving me bite-free.
On my back deck,
I’m serenaded by brook
splashing over rocks,
especially when clouds open their fists;
after, the happy hunt for worms
and the air is punctuated by birdsong.
Clear blue above,
hundred-year-old maple and oak shade me
early morning and late afternoon.
I’ve painted my garden
with high-climbing clematis,
crimson and violet salvia,
blush of peony and mime-white Shastas.
Primroses, the finest of weeds,
not pesky like dandelion—
light up my flowerbeds.
When trees undress for winter
and blossoms are a dream long gone,
sculpted forms of willow
and jagged armature of sycamore
play against the sky.
Some days, the neighborhood draped
in bridal snow, I’m forced to put on boots
to inspect the myriad designs:
bouffant bushes, a hillock re-frozen
satin-sleek, with a wind-moiréd bridal train.
Except for minor infringements—
ant infestation at doorways,
mice infiltrating my garage,
squirrel migration into attic,
this is an ideal bed and breakfast,
lunch and dinner.