Pluvia

leafand raindrop.jpg

 

There’s something
about the first rain of fall
when it comes, finally, to fill
in the cracked earth of
summer’s heat

A mollifying, reminding one
that change will come,
regardless, and without
our doing, or undoing

As we circle and spin,
we transform
by our living, re-shape by
what passes over and
around and through us

There is no control, none
really needed, just patience
and some stillness
to sanction the interval
until drops upon the roof
announce their arrival

Bell Jar Tomatoes

Each tomato nestled insideBell Jar.jpg
one of seven bell jars
soldiered neatly atop our garden wall.

“It’s an experiment,” she whispered,
clad in raincoat and boots,
umbrella ready at hand.

“What kind of experiment?” I returned,
no rain gear for me, an adult without worry of storm.

“It’s a mystery,” she breathed,
eyes intent on vermillion,
globes luminous in the gloaming.

“And how will we know…” I slapped at my arm,
gnawed by a hungry mosquito.

“The Frog Children will come!”
Her incredulous wide eyes squared at me,
not allowing a finish to my question.

“Of course. I forgot.” I bowed to her fervor.

“They will come through the steam.”

“You mean fog.”

“No! The steam.”
And she steered her umbrella toward the pond.

We stood guard until dark.
No Frog Children came.

“Oh, well!” with a shrug and she flit back through
our wooden kitchen door, swallowed up
by the inky hall to her bedroom.

Tomorrow will percolate new mysteries for us
in our garden of bell jars, tomatoes, and steam.

 

Author’s Note:

This poem is from hour 14 of the 24 Hour Poetry Marathon. The prompt was as follows:

Write a poem that contains at least five of the following ten words. Feel free to include all ten if you wish: Frogs, Evening, Tomatoes, Jars, Raincoat, Steam, Peculating (Which I read as “percolating” by accident after fourteen hours of writing,) , Children, Elbow (Which I changed to arm in the final draft. ), Mystery.

In the Cave of Our Ancestors

IntheCaveofOurAncestors2.jpg

 

Upon our broken land, Ancestors,
we ask for your return
that we may be the hollow bones
to bear and tender your healing.
May we walk in beauty upon our land.
May we walk in beauty upon our land.
May we walk, again, in beauty.

 

 

 

In the Cave of Our Ancestors, collage, by Lex Leonard

Tarry

Thistle.jpg

 

Once I lived with old grown trees,
arms bent to their years,
crooked under time’s long breath.

Cattails at attention.

Rushing stream after storm
pushing over, pushing round rocks
where gentle purple thistle rise
on prickled backbone.

There I lived in must of
leaves of seasons past.

I stayed
with moon who
arched and hid with sun
in reverie chased.