Grass

Before the feathers of rain came

I lifted the heads from tired

daisies and cut the points from

spinach-green grass on the lawn.

A slither of movement at the

edge caught my attention; it was

a finger-thick Slow-worm,

Anguis fragilis. The length of my

forearm it moved timidly near

the pine border, twisting over

itself seeking a roof of mown

leaves. It disappeared as easily

   as it had appeared. 

Your Words

I woke in the night thinking of these

words you wrote: Summer blossoms

forth. There was a spectacular full

moon braving the slim crack in the

curtains, pushing a sliver of silver

forcefully into the bedroom. A glint

of it hit an old mirror, brought instances

of the antique alive again. I woke in the

night with scents and petals and summer

blossoming in a tired light. What might

come from this season, what’s meant by

the glory of moonlight reflected? Your

words were swords pricking my sleep;

there were strawberries and lilies and

syllables deep in my full moon dreams.

'The summer blossoms forth'

'The summer blossoms forth'

Acrylic, pencil, newspaper on board.

Yellow Rose

The sweet heady scent

   of the new rose creeps

like fine roots or webbed

   tendrils through the

Spring air. I allow it

   access to me; let

it fill my whole being

   with its invisible, sensual

   beauty.

Strawberry

I pick, gently and

   with tenderness from

my garden the first

   strawberry this summer. I

think of the words it

   elicits: you will change

them into fresh new

   words. Hopefully they will

ripen like this sweet

   speck-seeded fruit has.