On such
a May morning
thoughts of New England beckon
Open windows
shaded by large, old trees
sun
filtering through the leaves
cool, breezy, fresh
no overt fragrance
like Savannah further south
Too soon
June will bring us
to our senses
air conditioners will drone
blocking all feel and
sounds of the outdoors
Heat and humidity will
hang
in the air
as we hang
between north and south
Earth so dry Beginning to relinquish hold on a landscape slowly losing the struggle to dig deep enough for life sustaining moisture – sprinklers small comfort. Into each heated night, cicadas loose a relentless, high-pitched plea – no relief and dawn arrives – gray as the day before. And yet – yet the strawberry pot…
Little people in furry clothes
Second Sunday forecast snow. 915 – a tiny flake? another. more . 930 – only barren trees shrouded in a clouded sky. I’d been so – expectant, if only for a moment –and, had already told Maisie. She remembers ‘first snow’ (so long ago) silently falling through the darkness sensing it, barking till we went…
December had barely finished spelling out its name, yet huge, wet snowflakes silently …
Funny isn’t it how late afternoon is also early evening and is (just as surely) – night – depending on the time of year In the scrapbook…
Early morning sun dances across the inlet in a blizzard of light tags a falling leaf then darts up the hill weaving through the trees in a game of hide and seek Thousands of gold flecks swirl through the air lifted on the wind – while winter lies in wait around the next corner Temporarily…