Archive for August, 2017

Shared fruits.

Creatures great and small

tracked the chilies

and cherry tomatoes;
they gnawed the beets and potatoes

and destroyed the sunflowers

before the first bloom.

We lost most of the blueberries, probably 50 quarts, to three avian cartels:
the blue-jay gang, the catbird mob, and the brown-thrasher syndicate.

Some fresh magic comes up free to compensate,
a mushroom with the face of a planet that’s not one of ours,

or a globe of bubble glass.
It’s all still good under the moon.

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From the hot room, in the conservatory of the Biltmore House.

A ring of endless light,

by a yellow thrust shot through with white expostulations,


just across from pendulant nightmare pods

beside a slimy shiny scary hungry thing,

as I look down into the honey trap,
my reflection looks up at lunch


Oh, pretty flowers,

pure sex, no shame.

Delighting dappled things

and purple


 and tan (!)


and deep dappled blue,


plus a pinky purple


over the aisle from red velvet
more thrusters, down and all around sideward


white petals with flower tips bringing on


nightmare again, tumescent reds
converging yellow fronds.


Purple reign looks nice.

It’s time to find the shuttle bus
to parking area C3
unless we stay to find out what happens here in the dark
under an eclipsing moon.

 

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Chance encounters.

Swollen by recent rain
the creek is animal restless
but seldom gets out of bed;
planted hard, but on its way
to pushing Mississippi mud
through the Gulf of Mexico.

Hard to know what he might be looking out for;

not me, evidently, not in any way that matters.

Trying out a new browser
whose eyes look out straight

even eating birdseed from the ground.

She guesses she’ll slip into the trees now
if I’m so persistently inquisitive.

Maybe a little bigger than a fist

probably the one getting through the fence
to eat the beets.

At the bottom of the lawn
we watched the sharp shinned hawk
lunching upon,
as it turned out, a blue jay.