Poetry Yet Again: How Strange . . . in Summer

I said I wouldn't do this often and I meant it when I said it. I didn't lie. Summer isn't the season for poetry to me but yet, here I am---posting poetry again. It's an anomaly. It has to be.

Coming into New England

Gliding above the clouds

And there below . . . hills and valleys
Festooned with gray-tipped tree streaks
An ice blue horizon bright with reflected sunlight
But oh, the green hills and mountains
All huddling close to the road
Soft rain falls in tiny clear drops
Air so cool and sweet, inviting intoxication
Along side the road a river meanders
Staining stones and spreading its arms wide

I know this place

                    It seems to know me.
                    Oh, mercy. . . I know this place.
                    Hello. . .hello? Remember me?
                    I think so. Didn’t we meet once?
                    No--- But yet, I cannot deny

I know it and it knows me.

Oh, mercy. . .

 

 

Always Coming Home

 

Windswept grasses

Blue haze in the distance

Sand dunes sculpted in wind

Rainbows crowning mountaintops

Turquoise water lapping at sugared sand

Dark green fir and spruce

Burying their heads in soft gray clouds

A winding wet-black road

Where redbuds peek

Wide, muddy rivers and sparkling streams

My heart always says

I’m home—I’m always coming home.

 

Falling Rain

There on the tips of my fingers—the tips of my eyelashes

Tiny, clear drops of rain

More than mist—less than showers

Miniature prisms unlocking rainbows

Simple, fresh—glorious.

 

 

 

And for something just a little darker:

Revenants

Makeshift days and cobbled nights

Of faded sun and fractured stars

Looking for something

I’m sure isn’t there—a phantom, a whisper

Perhaps only an echo gone now and silent.

And the air holds no memories.