Late Spring
The bliss of quiet today,
a strange absence of motors,
of any man-made sounds.
certainly not silence.
This haven has its own
ambience-
the chortle of willful squirrels,
the piccolo explorations
of hatchlings.
& under the pomegranate tree,
each red flower trembles,
reverberating
with the hum
of laboring bees.
Spring is shorter now,
warm enough for the wine-colored sweet peas
to blossom, to stretch their tendrils blindly
towards the nearby verbena,
to cling, to climb, to scent the air then suddenly
too hot for them to flourish.
Yet right now,
there is a type of
perfection.
The peace heightening even
the gentle jangle of
the dogs’ tags
as they circle & tamp the ground,
prepare to rest.
So still,
I imagine I can hear
the blue hammock swaying in a breeze-
Imagine I can lie there, long enough to witness
the moon waning,
a crescent so fine,
thinner even than spider’s thread or
strand of hair.
A new moon,
one that almost disappears,
almost,
into all that dark.
