An Ordinary Day in June

The jungle outside my window,
(three trees and a blackberry bush
with berries much smaller than my thumbs)
has quenched its thirst with a long drink
on a day of insistent rain, and now
it basks under the glow of a clear sky.

That vision of emerald gowns
and ruby gems moves in unison
as the trees nod and sway
and the berries plump contentedly.
When they think no one is looking
they dare to brush a branch-tip touch.

And I, in pretense of not noticing,
avert my eyes and tip my head
to catch the playful breeze,
to feel it flirting with my hair
as we — the trees, the berries and me —
celebrate the delights of this ordinary day.

More Splendid than Byzantium

No fantasy,
this mossy forest floor,
the decay, the spoor,
the symmetry and artistry
that cushions sole and soul.

The tiny wren
or lowly sparrow, no golden bird
on golden bough.  This song
is real – a trill
that’s born of being.

No drunken merriment
pollutes the air.  No shining
armor here.  All highs
and lows
are measured by the trees.

The breeze a voice
that comforts weary  travelers.
The spirits here are friendly,
complex without complexity.
No artifice in this eternity.

Reconnoitering the Perimeter

have cast their seed
on this rocky spot.

Here, where mankind’s
industry conspired to kill
nature’s beauty,

where concrete slabs
covered irises and bluebells
and toppled

mighty trees, scarring
the face of the land, here
good Earth reclaims her rights.

Rust and stone, unyielding
until a seed borne on a vagrant wind,
and another, and then another one

gathered to make a garden plot,
a paradise created by God’s own hand,
here, in the unlikeliest of places.

The Pines Outside My window

The pines have grown tall;
handsome in their emerald trappings,
their balsam scent pleases the air.

Decades ago when I moved here
they were foot high saplings, shrinking
from the wind.  Tonight they engage in flirtation

when it whispers past them.
In branch tip touch with their neighbor,
they make no demands of each other.

They accept the storm without question.
They accept the sun as a benevolent kiss
from heaven.

Their splendid backs bent or straight,
each day is a celebration.  Engaged in play
or test of will, the pines stand strong.

Their roots are firm.

Graceful May

Is it the warm breeze or the bird song?
Maybe it’s the puffy clouds
supported by a sky so brightly blue.

Who knew this day, preceded
by a week of rain, would claim
perfection without ado?

Graceful  May, you’ve brought the sun.
Finally the bloom is on the stem.
The scent of new mown lawn

perfumes the senses.  We didn’t
earn it or even expect it … this
gentle day we celebrate.

Such is His grace.