Posts for June 22, 2017 (page 5)

solstice finds me arranging two dozen roses in a crystal vase, thinking
about planting succulents string of banana string of pearl evokes elegance I imagine potted in clay painted gray-white on mantle bringing greenlife to autumn, winter seasons anticipated in order to embrace sixty sultry summer days
with nostalgia, implying humid patience necessary to endure blazing yellow hours melting bones into sidewalks too hot for bare feet yet shoes discarded months  before afternoons bleed between watermelon seeds spit in careless exhaustion, chased by red wine from Mason jars without lids, no matter as long
as lightning bugs extravagant distract attention to detail, marring perfection
found in dandelions pursuing through wide expanse of lawn cut perfume inhaled
as anticipation for bullfrogs croaking twilight warnings and birdsong ringing morning early before sprinklers run in afternoons as much as for children
as the lawns and I yearn for charcoal grills inviting neighbors offering solace
in potato salad, playing music too loud any other time except these months children are free from desks, diving instead into chlorine pools turning tips of blonde hair green while turning faces up to sun to celebrate

Begonias have colors that blur
red to rose to pinkish to tinted white
Leaves from darkest green to light
They huddle together to grow
So enjoying the closeness
Kept watered
They will stay and stay throughout
The summer and then some
Their thoughts create a glowy mist
Around their forms
They sleep at night
But daydream one-story-after-the-other
During coolish summer mornings.

I wish you hadn’t said,
“It’s my responsibility to care.”
Your responsibility.
Like I am your pet.

I had hoped that you cared
because you wanted to.

I had hoped that
you
wanted
me.

But you only want to pet me
and claim
it’s your responsibility.

In a weedy field trembling with crows
a woman lusts, strips, flings herself
into the spectacle of being a crow  

Her wings arrows, she devours the sky
High in a leafy oak nest, she portions
skewered fruit for fledglings  

same as she pieces out time between roost
and the yellow house with a wingless man
where she purples flowers, assembles stones  

She forgets her body, opens
herself into a golden flame
or sometimes, a shaft, to wound                                

~ Found poem composed/modified from words in Brigit Pegeen Kelly’s poem, “Divining the Field”