Tall brown spikes on green stalks.
Herd plants, unlike their namesake
stand together, day after day.
Under hot sun, wind and occasional hail
bake into velvet texture
slowly stretch until they burst.
Brown-flecked white fluff stands on end
like the cat, suddenly shocked
sensing threat nearby.
A thresher looms its blades
and they scatter in the wind
seeding their next generation.
Among the quiet
full bloomed beauty seen by all
blushes tints of pink.
Fire burns crimson hot
against night’s black sky.
Thousands of eyes stare
through nature’s scrim.
Souls stir
below ancient burial mounds,
spew bits of stick ash
into sacred space,
angry at our trespass.
Iowa fireflies
dance with stars
against the black backdrop
of eternity.
Once trapped
within a glass jar
their magic dims
like childhood dreams
whimsical
wistful
gone.
Tree trunk cadaver
like old man’s vericose veins
but still standing straight.
Spring Harvest
We searched that day
for morels and fiddleheads
no words, no sounds, except the wind.
The rock laden stream followed us
deeper and deeper into wooded fields,
side by side seekers.
Heads bowed, eyes on nature’s floor
suddenly spied the curling greens
and soft brown spongy shapes.
We knelt as one, upon soft damp earth
hands outstretched to pluck the harvest
foretaste of the meal to come,
wild succulent edibles of spring.
Cracked earth craves relief
parched crops crumble, seedlings lost
dust storm disaster.
Cries gracefully to nourish the earth,
spins arms wide to create the wind.
Smiles warmly upon her children,
slow to anger, seldom thunders fury.
The lilac family lived on a lane
colorful and ostentatious
in a quiet sort of way.
Muted violet, creamy whites
pastel pinks and deep purples
beautiful dressers and lovers of perfume.
Nestled in a blanket of green
she peeks out with her ruffles.
A bitsy thing among her friends
demure and delicate
the sweet-scented
Miss Lily of the Valley.
She quietly lives the rules of mourning
body drooped in shadows
occasionally sees the sun
empathy personified
destined for sadness
the perennial bleeding heart.
Waves in Fury
Waves spew anger
again and again
batter rocks to granular bits
like cruel words
batter the vulnerable heart
crush self esteem to nothingness.
In response to The Daily Post’s weekly photo challenge: “Forces of Nature.” Tobacco Bay, Bermuda – February 2015. Amazing to feel the wind so strong it made us lean forward to move. Back at our rental, I licked my upper lip and could still taste the salt from these glorious and angry waves! I think I must have been a sea creature in a past life — how I love the ocean!
lillian the home poet 