It’s 45F and misting and foggy. Since I couldn’t sit out and paint, I went for a little spin with my coffee and camera. So this:
The world’s a-song
the morning close
as cloud to hill
the green unable
to contain
There may be one more. Or not. This was started in the wee-small hours. I appreciate all the visitors and all the poems that were shared by the April poets!
The Last before May
Why, April,
are you so fickle?
holding back words
pelting down rain
and even snow
You’ve teased and
tossed your head
and now trees are
clouds, rolling waves
upon the hills
now green again.
But you, you dance
and sing
and wave
and go again.
Can’t believe it’s almost over, since it feels like I’m about to fly
Arms outstretched,
as wide as I
horizon line
air and ground
with the sun
so warm in my eyes
my head glows
while my feet
live in shadow
air and ground
Fingers spread
a small jump
let go of
gravity.
a day arrives when
ordinary and mundane
aren’t on the agenda
I put out my hand to you
and we’re strong
for each other.
Now that night has come
the world takes a breath
and sits back
an old couple together
trees stand black
gated sentries
by the occasional window.
The mounded woods are silent
but at the corners
in the wet hollows
peepers screamed again
their romancing undaunted
by a sudden april chill.
I never did a day’s work in my life. It was all fun.
