The Solsticene

In greenly thoughts of spring’s eventide overblowing.
Scintillation of sun, through shocking boughs laden,
evanescent betwixt yesterday and tomorrow.
The sun’s gauge shows that hot night, restless and pining
is even as pressed in upon us as the snows were
when the dalliance of a single tepid breath
upon the least cool morn was unthinkable.

Here in noisy glade, the road’s relentless cars
and trucks bounding beyond the hedgerow,
or hiding beneath the row covers
or panting sweaty, deep in hip deep meadow,
tidal waves of sharp shinned feather heckle and tease.
Feather and quip, feather and quip, feather and quip.

No more the quietude of winter’s grip,
nor the verisimilitude of ancient spring’s reprise.
Now upon shut lids, the crimson light peers in,
with warm insistance like the broad knife blade
slicing through peony stem or through the tense
shadowed musk of clustered iris leaves.

As morning harvest moves through mist and dew
to baffle memory yet again, by turns breaking fresh
then back again like shimmering desert,
crumbling soil replete with weed and thorn
as life’s own humor, blasphemed by bud and sprout.
The bud and sprout like fabled parable, ever leading
from half full cup to half full cup.

There beneath the mossy porch, a density of insects weave
a playful trap for morbid feasting
and we wait upon some unsung evening
to sample tender offerings in silent sweet acknowledgement
of our own omnivorous tendency.
Ah summer. Summer beams as wanton as a glistening
drop of blood upon the open wound of a half eaten berry.

Shackle us to the beast,
the steamy, untoward, lusty dark nights
and the shatteringly brisk heat of days.
Leave us to lose ourselves in reckless abandon.
Rakish and blithe like everything we ever meant to be.
Beam down upon us like the last gasp of a dying star.
Tether our desperate hearts to the outrageous languor,
the frisson of hot moonlight,
and the masala scented intentions of Summer.

~DJR