Summer’s last warmth,
round, humid days—
I hope it stays.
Been slipping past,
too fast.
No lakes,
no hikes,
no camping.
Just pulling weeds
and watering,
tending a small
new forest.
Slow it down
before it all
turns to brown.
Before green
fades from the grass.
Before blossoms dry
and fall off
to seed the ground.
The fleabane now
stands so tall
at the patio corner;
little white
blossoms rocking
in the breeze.
I can’t cut them down.
Not yet. Not yet.
The stars sew the seeds
of rocks that hold
the seeds of ice crystals scattered
like seeds of rainbows that
carry rain seeds falling
into rivers where fish
swim and splash water seeds
onto flowers along the riverbank.
Amongst the flowers are hoofprints
of a white horse carrying
the Goddess Brigid
in a long silver dress
holding her staff high—
she has tied to it a string
of cool white sparkling
stars that stream
across the lilac-dawn sky.
Solidago
Oh goldenrod, turned brown, your burling
seedheads, stalks withered.
Yet you stand upright beside
this morning’s damp ledge-stone.
I carried cans of water to your feet
all through the hot, bone-dry summer.
You rocked in the searing breeze,
bending toward the sun even so.
I’ve admired your late-summer blooms,
where the bees rubbed their yellow-coated legs.
Yesterday some hopeful rain finally splashed
down and soaked into the dusty ground.
Are your roots reaching outward
to extend your footprint for next year’s glory?
I am the magnificent moon
a fertile daughter
on the barren surface
dark eyes pleading
lips full and round,
effulgent.
When I am full—
I speak.
Don’t you see it? Do you see?
Everything is precious.
Time now for
the fiercest protection
imaginable.
You gaze upwards . . .
my lips are moving
my eyes pleading.
You blink.
Shake
your head.
Wonder,
am I mad
under the moon?
No. The sacred
daughter of the moon
speaks to the summer
daughter standing barefoot
in damp grass having left
her shoes inside.
I am the magnificent moon daughter
circling the Great Mother, casting
light in the rounds of days.
Starlit and sparkling
floating
on black velvet.
My lips move.
Don’t you see it?
Look!
Daughters, we
are unbreakable.
Pregnant with possibility.
Fierce in our fullness.
I am endless rain,
drowning dew,
a green-spored parasol
in tea-black soil.
I am a puddle on the surface
of grey-rock ledge
the slippery sheen of slate stone.
I’m coal black, wet
tree trunks with their patches
of vibrant, soft moss.
I’m the bass notes of green frogs,
the whir of toad songs,
night bugs mating on
a screen door
in porch light.
Ping-pong balls
on a tin roof.
My city is gone.
I am soaking rain,
humidity my perfume,
curling hair frizz and
damp-showered skin.
I’m a shirt that sticks
to slick backs.
Insistent like a deep-
tongued kiss. Languid,
then lashing.
My city is gone.
I am a waterfall of rain,
a driving deluge, my
thunderous roar carving
new river banks and felling
shallow-footed tall white pines.
I keep midnight company,
create caverns out of concrete,
carry the refuse of humanity
from empty doorsteps.
I pour into their bottomless
secret places leaving
dark, murky, stinking pools.
My city is gone.
I am a warning rain—
I am tree-trunk tangles on
railroad trestles,
a deep crevasse where you
used to drive home.
I carry mountains to
the other side of roads,
twist bridges, spin cars
in river eddies.
I embrace the grit,
scour it clean.
I feed on warmth,
build higher and higher into
ever-thicker clouds
heavy, full, and ready
to utterly saturate earth’s
dry, thirsty deserts or
already-soaked spongy
woodlands.
I mist
sprinkle
pour
drum
pound.
I never mourn—
not cities, not roads, not homes . . .
mud to the ankles,
precious memorabilia,
delayed plans,
lost dreams.
July 10, 2023, Vermont
Rain drops drip, drip, splash, plummet earthward soaking into a rotten hollow log covered with lichen and mushrooms. The huge log is quietly decaying on the forest floor. No one notices. The carpenter ants have long since lost interest. Its hollows are too moist, now, for cozy dens for gray foxes or chipmunks. On its north side, a plush covering of luxurious green moss. It’s impossible not to reach out and run the palm of my hand over it, my fingers tickling the softest, greenest gift that nature has to offer me on this dark, rainy equinox morning.
Summer—
It just found me
old state forest
tall wise trees.
Dipped into
large tidal river running.
Still woods
silvery trunks so straight and smooth
leaves rattle and sigh.
Field of tall grasses
splashes of wildflowers
goldenrod
ragweed.
Merry painter
wearing summer cap.
We start to climb
a long hill but
now
places change.
Saw-teeth and tread roll
out the wide wheels
groaning and whining
branches break.
Where are we climbing to?
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