Seasons of Birch

In spring, her bare branches bud fresh leaves.
Mourning doves line them like singers in the choir loft

Days lengthen. Nests shelter the newly hatched
and later, provide a launch point for fledglings.

Summer storms set limbs swinging.
Wind whips and boughs bend scattering twigs across the grass.

Autumn approaches and tired yellow leaves
spin and twirl before other trees begin to color.

Woodpeckers harvest invaders who leave white bark
pockmarked and peeling. Daylight diminishes.

Snow falls, blending with her naked trunk.
Mourning doves line her branches.

Great Sky Cauldron

 

The contents of the great sky cauldron

spin and swirl.

Inky tendrils draw together,

enmeshed by invisible forces

to create walls permeable only

by angry gods.

 

Rain bullets from the heavens

pummeling all below into

submission.

Seed

 The seed splits and spits a

newborn plant into

the loamy world

where it guzzles

good stuff from grit

along with water and time.

 

Eventually it pokes it’s tender

head above the bed

growing stronger in the sun,

sending leaves and vines sprawling

across the lawn,

maturing beneath a canopy of

moon and stars and daylight.

 

Green orbs hide beneath sheltering

foliage, growing and growing until,

as winds shiver and leaves wither,

the fruit ripens, ready to be picked.

 

A woman holds a streaked green melon against

the worn wooden cutting board and

slides the knife through crisp rind to

reveal tender pink innards which

she passes to an impatient child who

bites and chews and slobbers,

finally spitting the seed to the ground

where it dives into the dirt

and waits.

Morning Traffic

 

Vehicles rumble down the road

outside my window

destined for mysterious locales

or maybe banal borders

in hidden states.

Mind trips in contemplation.

leashed

 the pug pants as we walk the trail

short legs refuse to keep up
and energy fades
she chooses not to move so
must be carried

Meanwhile her beagle sister
tugs the leash to greet
all we pass and smell
each inch of ground,
energy unflagging.

Congregation

 

Mourning doves congregate below my deck

heads bowed.

A single bird stands forward

from the huddled mass

and watches me through the window

beady eyes filled with distrust.

At some invisible signal,

all raise their heads.

They croon a hymn and process forward

jostling for a front position

before exiting in waves

and soaring into a shaft of morning light.

Tulips Rise

 

Tulips rise

Brave in cold spring weather

Pink and yellow blooms

Push skyward

Deer snack on ice-kissed buds