these leaves had roots once.
this sheaf was a forest
(or a tree)
and birds nested
in its branches,
squirrels cannoned
from limb to limb
with death-defying grace.
All articles filed in nature poetry
i suppose you have trees
the evening sun set the oak leaves glowing
like bronze against the still-blue sky,
and i wished i could show you
how beautiful it was, could explain
why i wished i could show you.
network
the young grass stands slight
and fragile against the cold.
wind
all day long
the wind has been
scouring the trees;
now the lawn is thick
with bronzed leaves of oak,
tender yellow of maple,
wild red and orange
and byzantium of gum.
milkweed
while the roses were drinking
i set the milkweed seeds
sailing on the wind,
watched as the air currents
caught their silken parachutes
and bore them aloft
and out of sight
spirea
at the little grey house on the corner
the spirea has begun to bloom,
delicate white blossoms creeping mistily down its long, slender branches.
april showers
after weeks of dry weather —
or merely a tease of moisture in the form of fog
or snow or sleet or drizzle —
the spring skies have finally broken open
desecrated places
wendell says there are no unsacred places,
only desecrated ones, but i don’t know
what desecration looks like in the wild.
return
new green leaves unfurl tentatively from last year’s dry brown canes
Read Moreapril shower
the rain hits the pavement with a steady splash
and shafts of lightning forewarn of thunder’s uneasy rumble