Forgotten in the lilies of the day
are the night’s terrors of the soul.
No mystic, not a believer, simple soul,
without divine connection, floating lightly and free,
a butterfly toiling and spinning at blooms.
Inspired by The Dark Night of the Soul by St. John of the Cross.
Air scented thickly from many spring flowers.
Heat inversion and fog and warming skin.
A morning so heavy that the peonies
can’t lift themselves to greet the sun.
I sit shaded, writing it all down.
A sunny April day in late January.
A warming strong wind the past days
erased the remaining snow, dried the ground.
I took tea outside and read new poems.
Buds watching me chuckled over my joy.
Before the cold hits, I collect seeds
from fleshy fruit – heirloom tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers –
and annual flowers – petunias, marigolds, zinnias, impatiens.
Hope in these last warm autumn days,
that I’ll be planting again next spring.
A snowy border to this August field.
My morning walk at late summer pace.
A queen’s lace or a common weed,
a wild carrot – a matter of perspective –
A clear horizon, lacy blue and white.
