I love it when good practices carry over. A-to-Z is over, NaPoWriMo is over, but I still feel like writing poems every day.
May 1, 2015
Nature today (to-week, to-month)
is contradictory, paradoxical, odd.
Ninety-degree days and fifties at night;
jacarandas bloom and blast
a month in advance;
volcano explodes off Oregon, undersea;
tree limb rots inside, crack-falls hard,
freaking the kitties and
blocking the driveway for morning;
Chile erupts, and Nepal quake kills
(sign of the times, shrieks a particular social niche);
but a darkorange butterfly flew past then revisited
after I sent him a message in my mind,
while a fat hummingbird chirpchattered in the school tree,
and the moth just now, drab-brown with scalloped black edge,
sat on my table as I typed messages,
sat for minutes and let me watch him.
My friend took pictures of a singing thrush perched on iris
and a hairy bumblebee getting intimate with a poppy,
and the crickets that I forget to listen to
are chirruping even now.
The moon has been up since the afternoon commute;
it will wake me through my window
in just a few hours’ time.