Moonville

courtesy of Creative Commons CC0
You may think
you have to escape the city
to really see the moon, but
in the right corners of RoseAppleFarmVille
away from the glowing McBoxes,
in the darkened yards that
rub their backs against the tree rows
and where the cornfield drinks up
the light pollution,
you can shut off the house lights
and step out on dew-tipped toes –
ten steps …
eleven…

An owl croons like a country cousin,
and you crane your neck
and wonder where the night sky
has been all this time.

Greening May

(Better late than never – since I seem to be doing a monthly cycle, I thought I’d better do one for May. I love that time of year, which is probably why it took me so long to decide what to write.)

BJ tells me
the days are getting longer;
you can actually taste it.

She’s opened all the windows,
and the little gray house has
breathed out the stale of winter.
Even the woodwork breathes.
Sunlight bursts in, scented green.

She says it reached 70 today.
These are coatless days
in the midwest semi-burbs:
the cabin-crazed throw off their trappings
and plunge into spring,
bare-headed and bare-limbed,
jigging and jiggling winter-white flesh,
breathing soul-deep
and laughing, laughing.

BJ laughs that the apple tree
is sneezing pink confetti on the lawn,
leaving new leaves burning
on every branch.

My God, she says,
my eyes have ached for this green.
pink apple tree sneeze

Darling Days (August)

The Dog Days are darlings — don’t you doubt it.
These sultry temps transcend the season, soaring,
till we savor sweat, hot tar and glaring
days so bright that, swearing, we find reason
to suffer the sun’s gifts: pleasure and pain.
We run until the salt runs down as quickly
’til the ice-cream truck comes round again.

Thus August twines her vines ’round summer tides,
cool clothes, sharp shades, cheeks seeking for a breeze,
vacation gifts: pink skin, and dazzled eyes;
and when you think the brink of summer’s reached
a single branch –just one– mocks red and gold
and summer’s become … old
in the semi-burbs.

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