Seasons

It is after the storm ,
when the hot
concrete of the sidewalks
sends up steam and the starlings
feast on the worms, that I
live. The clouds have
a tint of green
and my lawn, my trees, my skin
my dog, my children, my house
and all that is me
is verdant in their light.

It is the white ash
that is the first to
turn the color of
fire and embers and finally
to a deep peach, then
the maple’s glory starts exploding:
preaching of the beauty there is
in death with the eloquence
and the grace of
slow motion fireworks--a yellow
that changes my mood as I walk
down my street to the large confetti
coming down as if I were a hero
home from war.

It is waking up to the
silent, satisfying, fresh
deep, deep, downy layers
of sparkling snow, on my yard,
my bushes, my trees,
drifting across my driveway
curling around
the eves of my house where I
live, cozy in the warmth of
quilts and love. The rising sun
casts its Midas touch on the face
of my wife who is looking out
on a golden world.

It is in the red bud that
she begins her dance without
motion as she sends the purple
lace winding among the beaches
and oaks. She makes me stir. She calls to
the dogwood, and the lilac that
it is time to grace the
world with new colors.
She smells of fresh earth, mushrooms,
the decay of leaves, and
lily of the valley. In the
mornings she watches me in
the multitudes of
of droplets of dew
like a thousand cats’ eyes
on every spider’s web,
leaf, and blade of grass.
She does not linger:
brevity is intensity,
intensity is passion.
If you would take her,
take her now.