It is black and silent
out the kitchen window
I catch the moon sidling
through my woods
a haloed disc of rising light
moving tree to tree
a hundred candles waltzing
Below her satin passage
that darkness is a wall
the sounds of incidental
mountain life restrained
Indoors it’s warm, and bright
Wrapped in a feather light cloak
of old house small noises
I settle in to wait
for morning
Category Archives: light
Non pareil
With thanks to M.F.K. Fisher
The kitchen basket is almost empty
a single red tomato moated with sunlight
waits for my touch
Time is short, blooms of mold
will soon claim it and I don’t want to lose
this object of my tongue’s lust
Perfectly ripe, its sleek skin
hints at a tantalizing split
ignored for now
and I dismiss the temptation to ravish
without finesse, preferring
the small pleasures of anticipation
So, slices fanned onto a blue moroccan plate
dressed in a squeeze of lemon, green olive oil
and basil slivers
become lunchtime’s non pareil
Each piece a grapeshot burst against my lips
already parted in pleasure
Originally published on 1/8/2021; reposted with small edits.
When the fog rolled in
Every time I came back
it was to stand surrounded
by the square front hall
oak and lemon smelling
Metal shaded lamps
to draw the eye at night
Orange tiger lilies bracketing
moss glazed fire place tiles
The Parlor door open
direct afternoon light
chased by muffled gray
on humid summer days
The Green Painting waiting
open armed on the far wall
above a crack lacquered
roll top desk
It always took me further
into its own dream world
of fog, a stream dividing
the marsh edge to edge
The blackened green
of pine and cypress arms
rooted in celadon grass
no bump elbowed woods
The artist had watched
smiling when my grandmother
first saw the canvas and
took it wet from the easel
Thanks tossed back
she walked out the door
into the mist blocked morning
off home to hang it for me
Late summer
Yesterday’s light was all
perfect angles tipping
slowly toward Fall
hot sun perfect on my back
Drove home into the slant of
the golden hour spraying lightmist
alive less than a half second
The loop of silver gilt
iced phone lines pole to pole
The Angle of Later Light
It’s my life up to now
with its camp follower memories
thirsty for acknowledgement
wanting to do their chorus line kicks
before time runs out
senses ambushed by everything
It does not take much does it
a lemon hiding its sharp tongue
in a cheerful skin but once married
to sugar or butter is a
blanket of surprises
A remembered tomato eaten
seconds off the vine
warm in the hot sun
Socks pulled onto cold feet
the quick bliss of warmth
a soft second skin
The cut and scrape of a
hand turned can opener
to reveal humble tuna
The deep heart of color
in an emerald
Honey carrying its own
geography to the tongue
A window open to the
dense night of a city summer
and a mockingbird sings
near the fountain steps
I imagine it a nightingale
Movies in childhood
red and gold palaces of escape
sitting in the dark
impatient for the approaching
light and color and sound
calling from the screen
The angle of later light
the heart’s golden hour
slowly pressed into
star filled night
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Image copyright © 2023 Kate Rantilla, All Rights Reserved.
Haiku for Tuesday
Behind the bare trees
broad strokes of platinum cloud
frost on bird feathers
Treescape
The wolf throws her head back to howl
rising out of crystal spikes and mimic trees
a night when even lynx furred feet
will freeze on snow
glass visited in the dark by shapes the woods hurl
quick half life images for the next morning
with one of them shouting at the sky
First look
A morning pink comet
streaks the sky from left to right
the sun still floating up
the mountain’s eastern ridge
reaches up to slit the tail
its beam sharp enough
to cut through falling silk
Haiku for today
Late afternoon light
golden beech leaves almost turned
lantern lights the woods
Insistent messenger
A mourning dove in my apple tree
looks through the window
its message meant to prod
sun shrinks as the cold returns
woods maple tops spike leafless now
bronze oaks and candle beech stand guard
water lilies sink into the pond again
a scooped out moon brings frost
bears already denned up the hill
not quite past time for seeds but hurry
or jays will bring their beaks
Question of absence
Can a vacuum exist
without the memory
of that which it expelled
to give it shape?
Surely it can’t be
a true void if it has
held love.
Sun 1
What brings you to your knees sun
on mornings when you flee the other world
and mask yourself with cloud
flattening the day’s light into scrim
I feel certain of your grief
and lie resigned to graying tears
running down a window cheek
the house dogs take dimness
as a time to sleep
so there is that
Life With Horace 