Almost Thirteen

In a meadow
rich with Spring’s first grass unclipped,
she pulls the cape around her closer
as March with fingers long and thin
would claim it.

Golden hair and dress aswirl;
a sprite caught in the breath
of a storm approaching.
A tinge of blush and sweet smile’s grace,
her face a study of innocence.

She plucks a daffodil
tucks it behind her ear, a child
of the moor’s wild freedom
racing the storm clouds
home.

New York, New York

The murky waters claim your shores,
great ships turn topsy-turvy. Tunnels
spill the sea from guts too full.

Lady Liberty stands tall, her beacon
won’t go out. What storm would think
to douse her flame?

New York, New York,
It’s true your back is bent,
make no mistake, it is not broken.

The waters will recede
and generations later, staunch citizens
will remember these dark days

when you were on your knees,
how you gained your footing once again
slowly, bravely

with new muscles strong
from lifting
so much weight.

Summer Storm

A felonious aberration,
that soft pink sky turned red
with morning,
the innocent flowering
of dawn gave little warning.

A disingenuous incantation
that first faint rumble of thunder,
the distant streaks of lightning,
stagnant breath like some malingering
snake oil salesman

hovering, hulking,
lugubrious in the July noon.
Then that cold air,
austere, bereft,
invading the atmosphere.

The warring gods attack,
obtuse and cruel they duke it out.
Beguiled by early morning’s smile
we hunker now, waiting
for the storm to end.