Leaves

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They are called leaves

because they do.

Shading through green

then changing hue.

Urged by light

or a chill in the bone,

they let go,

leave home.

For brief moments

sail in the air

without hope,

without care.

Driven by the wind

they seem dead,

aspen yellow,

maple red.

They seem dead

and decay.

The soil reclaims them

to live next May.

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Autumnal Solstice

The sun crossed the equator.

The Earth tilted.

The bubble in the level slid south.

Did you feel it?

The sun feels warm,

but hot days are just a threat,

brittle and rattling

like the dry leaves underfoot.

The night air smells of petunias

and marigolds.

I look up at a million tiny snowflakes

waiting to come down.

This is the best time,

the cool evening of the year.

Snapshots of Wyoming

Back in Laramie

Pasque flowers at Happy Jack,

High wind on the plains.

 

Met old friends for lunch

At the new Asian restaurant.

Noodle bowl tastes good.

 

 

Freight trains rumble through

hauling loads.  No whistles blow.

I sleep on and on.

 

 

 

Lupines and larkspur

Purple jewels of the High

Plain’s wet springtime.

 

 

Joy, joy, happy, joy

Happy, happy, joy, joy, joy

Happy, joy, happy.

 

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Tomorrow we are off to Wyoming for a few days.  We will visit dear friends, enjoy cooler air,  harvest any rhubarb that may be left and make a pie, laugh a lot, hike favorite trails, eat great food and generally have a wonderful time.

The friends we are staying with are resourceful people who like to recycle, refurbish, reuse old buildings.  Another friend, who was relieved to get it out of her yard, gave them a playhouse her children had long since outgrown.  The following is what they did with it.

 

The Hen House

The shell, a cast off playhouse

Too soon outgrown.

Come get it and it’s yours.

Remade, repainted, reroofed,

Capped with a rooster vane

Spinning in the Wyoming wind.

Retrofitted with a single light bulb

To repulse the bitter cold.

Even Tyson rejects pre-frozen chickens.

12/5/12

 

Poetry Play

 

Ear Worm

John, John,
The gander’s gone.
The fox is on the town.
The kits will cry ‘til by and by
The gander’s on their table.
John, John.

 

Full moon
On the desert
Pulls on the sand and rock
The ancient sea now seems long gone.
Neap tide.

 

Bosque
Birds are betrayed
By the boy child’s tantrums.
Bringing winter back blasting spring’s
Breezes.

 

Cigars,
Cigarettes, pipes.
Chewing tobacco, snuff.
Made from crops lovingly tended
To death.

 

Tales out of School

Martha was proud of herself.
Twice each week, on different days,
She sat in a grade school class
Observing, taking notes
Of what was said and by whom,
Of what teachers wore,
Of which child was lazy or naughty.
It was her duty to go.
How else would she know
Just what went on at school?

Martha was proud of herself.
Once each week at bridge,
She sat at the table
Reading aloud her notes
Of what was said and by whom,
Of which teacher was rude or haughty.
It was her duty to tell.
How else would they know
Just what went on at school?

Martha was proud of herself.
Each month, on the first Monday,
She sat in the school board room,
Passing out typed notes
Of what went on at school
When they thought no one was watching.
It was her duty, she said.
How else would they know,
Just what went on at school?