Teenagers

This morning I heard the gentle sweet susurrus of countless 17 year old teenagers
wafting on the wind,
calling out for love.

Emerging from their solitary confined netherworld existence
into their cotillions and beautillions
they shed their earthbound form
and grow (to them) angels wings,

with which they fly to find their one and only true love.

In two weeks time,
the unceasing day and night cacophony of these alien amorati
will grow to irritate the locals.

They live only a few days to return to the earth
to consign their progeny to another 17 year sentence.

How sad.

Cicadas

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When She’s Away

When she’s away,

bright light seems harsh,

and soft light,

too dim.

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My Ephemeral Neighbor

When autumnal sentries drop their shields,
my ephemeral neighbor appears,
lingers in hibernal view,
until eclipsed by vernal blades.

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Wet Gray Fall Day

Billowy cotton clouds majestically migrate south across the sky’s expanse.

Beaver’s nocturnal machinations dot the forest,

and her toothpicks litter the water.

A mated pair of ducks are sole loungers

on this lake clothed in silvery ripples.

Occasional evergreens stand triumphant among darkened bare trees and winter’s encroaching cold.

While scattered dwarf oaks cling tenaciously to their brown leafy raiment amid the landscape surround.

All these,

a backdrop to a pleasant stroll.

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Dog Walk

Frosted grass glitters
Framing fields of golden fronds
Haloed by the morning sun
Ducks swimming

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In A Ray Of Sun

swaying golden in a ray of sun
Illuminated Japanese Maple leaves

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Falling As Snow

cherry blossoms

falling as snow

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Cicada

Solitary cicada debutant

calling for a lover.

You will die a virgin.

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The Golden Hour

Every eve we take a walk.
The time when dog and I and nature talk.

With Plover’s song and bullfrog’s honk.
With rabbit’s graze and beaver’s swim,
rippling still pond’s mirror.

A bright full moon smiles down upon someone somewhere to the southeast,

suspended between the waning blue of day and indigo of night.

Occasional cicadas click-rasp in the grass.

Rose gold cloud punctuates the sky’s transition to the north,

and the dark, dark, green indistinguishable trees surround us in panoramic horizon.

Solitary ephemeral firefly lights arc impending night.

My soul is quiet.

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The Depths of Her Love

I did not realize the depths of my wife’s love

until she spent hours beside my hospital bed

while all I had strength for

was to sleep and recover.

Or when she was there

While I relearned how to do every little thing.

Or when she bathed me when I couldn’t.

I didn’t realize the depths of her love

when she attended to bodily functions I’m embarrassed to mention.

Or when she cut up my meat at the table because at the time I lacked the capacity to do so.

Or when, like a mother asking a child, “What’s Wrong?”

She wondered at my tears of frustration

at not healing fast enough,

or my weeping in gratitude at doing something simple for the first time

this time around,

like moving a toe.

I didn’t realize the depths of her love

until I experienced all the myriad ways she cared for me,

when I couldn’t care for myself.

And now, when she gets even more angry at me for smiling during her lecture

for doing something so incredibly stupid,

it’s because

I realize the depths of her love.

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