Autumn is Spring turned antique.
seasons
Hustled
Spring doesn’t know
how to spring anymore
because it thinks it’s summer
Autumn can’t fall in line
with seasonal time anymore
because the heat’s still rising
Winter won’t wait
to leaf the trees anymore
because spring too early spirals
A dash of heat
All other seasons in Phoenix are just hyphenated summers:
Feuille morte
dried crackling leaves
though dead
are never quite still
Chilly bedtime thoughts
Winter is the slow-down
Winter is the search for self
Winter gives the silence we need to listen
Winter goes gray so we can see our own colors
Enclosed
Our bodies are meant
for the sun, the rain
the gusty winds
starlight and moon baths
fresh air and seasons —
so why do we trap ourselves
in indoor cages?
If we can’t hear birds sing
or feel invigorating breezes —
how are we to be refreshed
to heal, to know the world
beyond the borders
of our bodies?
Cozy
hiding in my winter cocoon
not coming out again until June
Tilted
Earth tilts toward Winter
my heart goes tilty too
the summer-fever cools
to a more reflective hue
Sage
October is fresh-faced April beautifully aged to wisdom.
Sixty-nine degrees
bliss runs wild with the breeze today—
this moment a delicious autumn cake
frosted with october’s dulcet bouquet—
worries let serenity breathe and play
while sweet nature gladness partakes
Seamless
the vibrant green-yellow-pink blossom-life of spring
the watery-blue radiant sunshine-breath of summer
the metallic-earth-toned glowing-decay of autumn
the grey-white holly-festive slow-motion of winter
Spring’s sure well-done over, at 100°
Poetic words flow much better in pleasant climes—
Springtime and autumn, more friendly for rhymes
Winter’s good too, we self-reflect well in cold times
But blazing summer melts words & numbs minds!
Poem of the April Palo Verde
Yellow.
Freaking.
Everywhere.
