Sparkling with fireflies,
Nights hover with lighting magic,
Sung to by crickets and frogs.
Tule fog rises, turning cool
Hiding all the scurrying ground,
Back to burrows and shelters
In the still-warm marsh.
The morning comes gray
Overcast with luscious wet rain
Heat rises again
Up from the torpid south,
Clashed in fury with the icy northern lands.
Spring has vanished.
In the mix
Hot, muggy, sticky,
stifling, wet laden air
Weighs down the day,
Breathing becomes aware
The rhythms of it.
Bats are dying,
Losing their place in the order of things.
In thousands-fold energy
The blooming Hawthorn,
That smells like rotting meat.
Branch tearing, tree breaking,
Red lightening drives in blinding flashes
Burning the sweet pastoral green.
It’s Thunder, magnificent,
Warring and destructive.
Gone are the fragile transparencies of Spring.
Summer weighs the gravity of swift changes
With opaque and baroque color.
Everything grows wildly in the precision
Of aggressive nature,
As if for the last time.
Gaia, furious at her insult,
Medea in her rage,
The tragedy of destruction
Lies haunting the beauties of power.
Why do the ghosts appear?
Just at this peak of glory?
Is this the trope of endings?
Why does the still white of Winter
seem so desirable just now?
Even so, the light is spectacular,
The shadows deep and green.
Humming bird’s ruby’d and emerald’d
buzz the porch for nectar
from the saucer-sized floozie flowers,
Those exotic Chilean blooms in florescent
orange, fuchsia and electric blue,
Those whose erotic hearts hold the promise
of sweet reward.
Wild Phlox spreads among the meadow woods,
With collective perfume,
Clean, intoxicating, seductive,
Pink, lavender, white sirens
calling from the edge
Into the bogs and mire.
At the edges of manicured lawns grow
The wild things:
Bright and tall, the brilliant yellow
Jerusalem Artichokes and plumed Goldenrod.
Here and there, stretching for acres
New England Asters in lavender fields
Interrupted by white Daisies gone drifting
From once tamed gardens.
Morning Glories and Sweet Peas
Entangle fences and posts
Protective mothers around
The meticulous weeded
Rows of Corn, Tomatoes, Zucchini,
Herbs, Garlic, Melons and Squash.
All blessed by flapping Tibetan prayer flags,
For good luck and prosperity.
As if that would fool the Tantric furies.
Feral around the barn’s neglected gardens,
Bright orange and blood red Poppies
Cover pet graves and echo places of war.
Lilacs and Iris, so exquisite and fragrant days ago
Are withered. Gone by
In the battles of seasons.
Upsetting—- those thoughts,
The trellis climbing Concord grapes,
And pure white Anemones
Reaching up and out
Of the weeds, thickets and tangles.
This year the pastures are carpeted with
Tiny white petal’d strawberries
and fragrant blue blossoms scented like mint.
Sweet breezes teasing the mind
Caution about scything down
The wild grass.
Generations of granite rock walls
Are crumbling in disorder,
Tumbling from their precise placement
Mocking the creations of control.
Pale yellow buttercups and Ladies’ Lace
Grow among the fallen,
Making the old stones safe from re-order.
On the cusp of tragedy,
Tries to remember comedy
If not irony.
The tempo allegro of the goddesses.