the Northern Wallflower

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The day after yesterday…

the lilacs were gone.

Then the iris.

One by one, they were, also,  all departed.

All, but the northern wallflowers…that is.

Never do the gods account for the ever so green…up on the ridge.

This is where the grassy knolls have always replenished me.

I come here daily to see what it is you see.

No, you are not just a simple plot of trees.

What has been, seen daily, yearly, at your limbs hand?

The growth so measurable…

Yet, your roots have begun a different kind of land.

 ∞

In deepest sincerity,

my strength has atrophied.

But my vigor…as I watch your vastness…

I admit…is thought of differently.

In freshened mind, as you have portrayed…

I cannot walk this walk…only to return to my cave.

Though in beckoning winds I may…become altered.

A small resolution should not be what I am after.

 ∞

Came fall, ever green will turn to rust.

Came winter, your poignancy will become a changeling, yet, robust.

Sheltering all who follow you.

Giving the time to renew.

 

 

 

 

Fife Farm

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The clover is invincible…

The green gold grass…waist high.

Stocks of infant corn stand in allegiance…out of the corner of my eye.

And, that is all I need to know today.

That is all I need to know.

Your Touch has grown Cold

Dearest, here we are back…doing what we used to do.

The promise of calendar days just a prosthetic gesture.

A sub-conscience decision to blur the vision.

Darling, I know something about love.

It isn’t dressed in hazard red.

It isn’t laced in road closed puns.

Yes, dear, I too, know something about love.

There is a dusting on the road…

a Sunday drive to nowhere I am told.

Dearest, you are the predator to this unseasonably cold censorship.

But then again, you’ve always gave me the inclement slip.

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February in the Spring

 

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Spring day in February

Hurt, ache, dispersed…and, now whisked away for just one day.

A particular release that no written word can negate.

The aroma of hope absorbed in cedar turns from scent to sound.

Magic in enjoying languid moments…

relishing in standing still with no chill, no longer a myth.

There is music in loving winter when it decides to go.

 

In the dark months, I attempt to realize not ‘everything is in my mind.’

In the light of now…when wind turns to breeze, my feet dare not touch the ground.

A fleeting thought as the sun goes down,

‘when the weather changes…never be the last to know.’