THE CUSP OF SUMMER
Geese in skies are on the wing.
The pointed flock, triangle-shaped,
Announce with honks the start of spring
When tall green trees are softly draped.
Trumpeting starts off everything
Once more. Black bees have just escaped
A blazing sun caught in the trees
Attempts to set, but branches mesh
And hold the globe. Those rays they seize
Should now have been in Marrakesh.
We are just little figures there,
Absorbing errant rays that stream
HOW WORDS USE US
Words are the only way we have to tell
Of far horizons hurtling into space,
Or how a swaying limb invokes a spell
On stars, to jostle them back into place.
Syllables follow hollows in a ...
She was a child possessed with fears
Whose dreams revealed another place
Where shadowed shapes that lived in mirrors
Pursued her at a furious pace.
She ran all night and every night
And finally slept in that large room.
AN ARTIST’S DEATHFor Bryant
I’ve often thought of writing about you,
And how your voice once filled the little square
How there was very little I could do
Except go to the funeral home, just where
Each segment of the year makes painted scenes,Creating sonnets. Thin and icy greens,Translucent, stuck in frigid airHold promises, stuck in a frozen stare,And every edge that melts slips to transcendThe present, speaks in warming tones to sendPredictions ...
A vantage point for any pot
Of small, bronzed marigold
Is next to a bare, molting tree,
Where several pale green stems uphold
Odd milkweed pods that fill the spot –
They’re edible, I’m told.
As apples ...
As we unfreeze our rosy faces
We envy friends in warmer places,
Though we are wont to wish them well,
Even those toasting toes in hell.
We feast on heavy meat, creamed peas,
Fried potatoes, sauce, and pasta,
SEX IN THE ENGLISH GARDEN
Light, feathery Astilbe
Sways gently in the breeze,
Afraid she always will be
Faint fluff beneath the trees
Concealing dear Sweet William,
Who rings each foxglove’s bell
Mid coreopsis ruffles,
White lily, like a ...
Some days in August there’s a summer hum
Of distant outboard motors, or a plane
Relentlessly pursuing a puffed cloud,
Echoes of past revelers, and then some
More silent moments, full of what’s to come –
Boats on the lake sang hymns of distant hum;
Homage to warm winds, as the radiant fall
Raised up its descant, muted, almost dumb,
But yet precise. A melancholy call
In minor key, it added slant to sum