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
Tag Archives: grass
Late present
The moon brought me a gift
last night, before the
solstice rain moved in.
I left the crispness
of my northern woods
to walk the dew off grass again
with you. It’s late, the
house lights dark, the night
all midsummer lushness,
bell buoys ringing softly.
We know the way by feel
across the lawns and
down the hill to home,
but can’t pass up the garden
with its flat topped walls.
We sit, shoulders touching,
stone still warm, and let our
breath find a rhythm together
after days apart. Then on
our way again, to soft
lamp light on varnished
wood, and pick up where
we were before the first
mosquito bit.
This morning I still feel
your hands, your skin on mine,
and smile.
Audio: Read by the author.
witness
morning light slants through spring woods
and the grass grows green again
three blue bags of roadside trash
and the grass grows green again
air is soft at dark’s approach
and the grass grows green again
screams of trees ripped from the earth
and the grass grows green again
early birdsong noisy joy
and the grass grows green again
news of rising hate brings dread
and the grass grows green again
summer stars the hunter gone
and the grass grows green again
prayers whispered for the world
and the grass grows green again
truth is not a skin we shed
and the grass grows green again
______________________________
Day 26. A call and response poem.
The false green
With winter off its rails
a whiplash melt from ice
lays the lawn bare
its blades now gold
and fledgling green
looking much like march grass
foretelling sun warmed birthing
An accidental color
it fools the eye and heart
This is not caesar’s month
the cold and snow of janus
will reclaim their space
until the sun extends its reach
into the soil, and pulls spring up
Life With Horace 