Between Seasons

On a day so light
the glint of a goldfinch
almost (but not quite) blends
with the sun,

flashes of spun gold
spark  as the wee bird darts
to and fro on his mission
of mercy,

or industry,
without ever stopping
to smell the roses, a creature
caught

between seasons,
transient as the leaves
just beginning to turn,
giving up their green

for yellow
and gold, and red-orange.
Debutantes all with no thought
of tomorrow,

they enter the gala
singing  the songs of summer
as they drift
into fall.

Soliloquy on Summer’s Last Rose

Both fire and rain, so vast the rationed storm,
It’s September.  a time well known for squalls.
Tho skies are tempest tossed, His hand commands
weather that will sustain a single rose…
one scarlet bud upon an em’rald stem.
Such treasure is undeserved by mortal,
Such pleasure designed free from sin and now
the only vision to disturb …  mankind’s
foul blot on this picture of perfection.
Even so, the bloom casts its spell on all,
the silken petals lend their softer touch.
…..One time I might have plucked it for my bliss,
…..Today it is enough that it exists.

One Last Look

Oh sweet mosquito song of summer,
thrum of wings and splash of fish,
the praying mantis on a green leaf
almost hides itself in piousness.

Nothing is colorless, even the air
wears tiny prisms of delight and sweet perfume
of gardens, bursting pea pods and pine scented
thyme, flowers blooming everywhere,
too exuberant to contain.

Summer…
a time when children increase a grade,
but shoes and clothes can’t keep up
with the growth spurt, cut offs
at the mill pond,

Shirt drying on a shady shrub
and twilight,
O! blessed breeze
that dries the sweat and tears,
the comfort

of grandma’s squeaking porch swing.
Three generations of flaking paint
and still, no update
has replaced it.

Leaves are writing poems
of the coming fall, dreaming colors
heretofore unseen,
as poets ply their pens
to season’s end.