Frivolous Green

Without doubts…

A worker among thieves.

Fanning out among the glamour trees.

To behold the fern.

Is to be exact.

Feeling its fingers…

Nimble in the in between.

Braiding the sun.

assaying in and out of life.

Ever…So green.

As if, fulfilling the gaps of a ponderous dream.

 

I cannot say why I find the fern so fascinating.

It seems miraculous.

Always kneeling, praying, waiting.

 

 

Idle Thoughts on a Gravel Road

The air is ripe with mustard, sweet and sour.

Leaflet of grass…

Drenched in clove.

Green onion accosting the gravel road…

And, heaven’s above.

No trails to speak.

Just an agreeable, steered,  waif.

A four-legged creature…

Somewhat close to the ground.

Lumber some, oh the glory of!

In and out of sight…without a sound.

Moo

The Cow in Apple Time by Robert Frost

Something inspires the only cow of late
To make no more of a wall than an open gate,
And think no more of wall-builders than fools.
Her face is flecked with pomace and she drools
A cider syrup. Having tasted fruit,
She scorns a pasture withering to the root.
She runs from tree to tree where lie and sweeten.
The windfalls spiked with stubble and worm-eaten.
She leaves them bitten when she has to fly.
She bellows on a knoll against the sky.
Her udder shrivels and the milk goes dry.  

A Church Without Doors

There is no destination to the woods

they are a churches that have no doors

a corn maze to which there is no end…no beginning

a quiet voice…ushering and soothing.

The lingering pines are sage infants waving you in

Fixed scales of clamour and forever reflection

And, yet, I am convinced they welcome me in

/

Summer Music by May Sarton

Summer is all a green air—
From the brilliant lawn, sopranos
Through murmuring hedges
Accompanied by some poplars;
In fields of wheat, surprises;
Through faraway pastures, flows
To the horizon’s blues
In slow decrescendos.

Summer is all a green sound—
Rippling in the foreground
To that soft applause,
The foam of Queen Anne’s lace.
Green, green in the ear
Is all we care to hear—
Until a field suddenly flashes
The singing with so sharp
A yellow that it crashes
Loud cymbals in the ear,
Minor has turned to major
As summer, lulling and so mild,
Goes golden-buttercup-wild.