Spring Fever unfinished

(cough, cough)
She is poisonous
to insects and birds.
Pesticide dipped berries
they tried to tell me

(cough, cough)
But her face was a garden that had me blossoming.
And I couldn’t shade away
as she melted out of her fur for me with slow
seasoned eases

And sprinkled my lawn with the seeds of black roses.
Now, I am in too deep to be uprooted.
(cough, cough)

Bug at first sight

Repost of flirt in white dress

I was suddenly rooted in place because I saw that spring
has raked in a new budding interests in the form of Mrs. Ladybug.

My attention was on her black face and red dress
black pumps and red nails as she sat in the sun
drinking nectar tea. Showing vine spreading hips and
floating down breast shaped leaves.

She sprinkled a shy watery smile toward me
when I was thirsty for the whole watering can.

Humming while talking, my ladybug sent dirty messages through a love bird’s song
and it transformed me from a fiery spice into a dull potato.

Weeding and raking away of vermin and pesticides is needed at the head of the flowerbed, And maybe a fresh down pour of rain, or three.

A Dandelion for My Mother

How I loved those spiky suns,
rooted stubborn as childhood
in the grass, tough as the farmer’s
big-headed children—the mats
of yellow hair, the bowl-cut fringe.
How sturdy they were and how
slowly they turned themselves
into galaxies, domes of ghost stars
barely visible by day, pale
cerebrums clinging to life
on tough green stems. Like you.
Like you, in the end. If you were here,
I’d pluck this trembling globe to show
how beautiful a thing can be
a breath will tear away.

Jean Nordhaus

lovely thursdays

Today is such a bittersweet day.

March 2nd

The snow is melting and there is not a cloud to be seen in the sky. At this moment, she is in the mist of another change. People go through a period of change every 7 years, and she is at the peak of her transformation.

Everything is slowing down. Adventures that once defined her life no longer seemed appealing. No longer is she in a hurry. She is looking forward to the outcome. What skin will she be wearing, what color eyes will she be looking out of, and what would her voice sound like?

Today is a good day. She hopes it last for a while.

Time

She died last night. Or was it this morning? The headache knocking at her skull says it was yesterday evening. With an inhale and a swallow she knew she was dreaming.

Her head is in mourning because of it. Every second was ticking a minute faster than it should. She tried to hang on to the praying hands when they came together at midnight up high and six thirty below. By this time the slurring made it hard for her to be understood.

What was the point of waiting when all she had to do was blink. Patterns of the drifting leaves looked that same as they did last fall. Blink. The wind smell the same. Like dead grass.

Was she asleep?

Seasonal love

In the morning hues of the wakening day
Sweet yellow mist, coats the spring air
Love caresses my skin, her gentle way
And kisses my cheek, May's love declare

Now you are lost on your way
Wait for me, my cool spring light
Dancing in the mist in amorous sway
Until I come with the warm summer nights