Monday, September 19, 2016

Spring









spring woods;
a yellow leaf falls –
ah! a butterfly












furrowed field –
the farmer’s face
splits into a grin










spring puddles -
the rain
falling into itself 















spring garden;
the scarecrow stuffed
with autumn straw














tilled ground –
the dry wood
of the hoe’s handle















outstretched arms –
the scarecrow
models his new duds















flame azaleas bloom
in the beds
of a burnt-out house 













 springtime –
for the butterflies and bees,
the season of harvest













dropping from one loneliness
into another –
the chrysalis









cold morning –
the gritty scrape
of the hoe





the starless area
of the sky –
a looming mountain














 
a winter of deaths –
the spring lilies
smell funereal














folded wings –
all of a moth
the spider left











butterfly
on a rake’s handle –
perhaps, it’s dreaming











the clink of our gear,
no words between us
this cold mountain morning














 
the magnolia blossoms
discolor
in the cold May rain













roses cling
to the stone house –
our late neighbor













a dewy rose –
the papery wings
of a butterfly














like the dew –
spring evanesces
into summer















after the burial –
a day moon
rising













a sparrow alights –
the gate chain dropping
a chain of dew













near the hayfield fences,
bumblebees
visit the milk thistle











a brief shower –
plum petals float
in the fresh puddles












spring thaw –
drop by drop, the opaque
becomes transparent






















urban garden –
roses scale
the razor wire fence















flies buzz the dung;
monarchs dip
into the azaleas











thumps and patters
on my umbrella –
under the plums and out

















plum petals,
bird droppings
on the garden buddha














 
the slightest waft
reveals their presence –
gardenias































the passing of spring –
my empty
sake cup















impatient
for the dewberries -
the redbirds and I










a day of plowing –
furrows crimp
our long shadows

















 
















silent labors –
a moth, a spider,
the yellow rose











its silent shape –
the bell’s shadow
on the garden wall

































spring garden;
each year I look
more like the scarecrow








 storm winds
roughen the lake,
stretch the willows eastward











                                                dogwood blossoms -
                                                               last to fade 
in the twilight 










spring day;
red wagon,
a child pulling a child














spring planting -
the man atop a tractor
loses his cap











late spring -
under the green woods
roll the Appalachian hills

  














four a.m. –
listening to my house
bicker with the rain













afternoon nap –
the rain's patter 
through an open window











winter’s withered brush
mauve-brown
in the sunset’s glow








winter ends –
here and there, dead leaves
still cling  








dogwood blossoms –
last to fade 
in the twilight








lingering – 
the sunset’s glow 
in a handful of fireflies







the bluebird –
a flurry of color
among the sepia hardwoods








winging home 
on warmer winds –
Canada geese








a brief shower –
plum petals float
in the fresh puddles








end of winter – 
small birds flit about
the sunlit grove








gone until autumn –
the steeple  
amid the hardwoods








the waning night –
a bare limb breaks 
the moon into pieces 








a spring sun 
has thawed out
the songbirds








dusting the brambles
like a late snow – 
dewberry blossoms








April slips away . . .
down a scented 
honeysuckle path








sporting    
his spring blues –
the indigo bunting








it looks like . . . but, can’t be –
last autumn’s 
orange butterfly








lush spring –  
between showers,
sunlight silvers the leaves








oh, so delicately,
the moth settles  
on a milk thistle bloom








dusk sinks into dark;
a lone firefly’s
jagged flight 








midmorning;
deer vanish   
in the hardwood shadows








the rains let up;
everywhere in the gorge,
the river’s roar







milk in the bowl 
purple-tinged –
blackberry spring







along the fence,
a spring colt
races my automobile