How Beautiful the Day

How beautiful the day
when the sun rises early
in a splendor of mango
and strawberry cream,
and the sky lightens
from a deep, pensive slumber
to an ocean in suspension
over the earth
with streaks of clouds
like cotton and paint
smeared across its dyed canvas,
and the silhouettes of trees-
dark and joyous shadows
that they are-
reveal their true colors
in a brilliant display of springtime,
drops of sparkling diamond dew
still clinging to each budding pine,
each delicate vein,
and a ruffle of warmth
flows through the wild meadow,
where daffodils, lilies, and violets
have just taken root, striving
to make their way past
the moist, fertile earth,
heavy with that early-morning shower,
a daily gift which spring presents
in modesty and pleasure,
accompanied at times
with a gentle, soothing zephyr,
or, when she is passionate,
a roaring gale and sprinkling hail,
overshadowed with thunderheads
dark with anticipation and excitement,
and a flash of violet lightning too,
just to accentuate
her token of coming.
How beautiful the day
when the world spins round its axis
at its leisure, letting the seasons
come and go in perfect liberty,
and all things come to a close
with a matchless sunset
sinking in grapefruit and pomegranate,
giving way to a violet sky
painted with roses and
scattered with gems
sparkling and glimmering across
the dark expanses of the endless
mystery called space-
empty, perhaps, but certainly filled
with pictures sketched by the gods
of their favored mortals, lively still,
and trailing through the heavens
each unique history and tale,
legends of old-
this, then, is the grandest end
to the grandest beginning
of the grandest day
that ever was,
a mere score and four hours long,
but lingering still
in the memory of those who
took the time
to cherish each moment,
each grand moment,
which then can be retold
and enjoyed, in part,
by the next generation, and
posterity ever after, until
the most perfect day that ever was
comes again
in the most perfect beginning,
entering in quietly, nobly, gloriously,
continuing in such a fashion,
until the most perfect end,
the most perfect sunset, arrives
in a matching nobility and glory,
falling into a perfect,
quiet,
noble,
glorious
grave.

To My Mom

I remember
when I was little
my mom would always
cover me up
before bed.
I would lie down
on my twin bed mattress
and wait for first the sheet-
white cotton
with bright flowers
and purple butterflies-
then the fluffy comforter,
red and pink and green,
so thick and heavy
with all the safety of
homely comforts.
And I never wanted
to get out until morning,
for then would the spell
be lost,
and no one could ever
recreate the snug closeness
of a few blankets
and a pillow
like my mom,
least of all
myself.
So would I fall asleep
in that warm, close
hug from heaven,
delivered
by my one childhood idol,
and dream
in childish
bliss.

Edge of the Earth

When the great orb has faded from the sky
And Artemis glows silver with her bow
And all the flow'rs' bright plumage seems to die
And all earth slumbers, unaware of foe-
That silent presence that penetrates all
And poisons dreams so sweet with bitter bile
And causes the unwary one to fall
Into a pit of bitterness and guile-
Then does Apollo's chariot of flame
Rise o'er the horizon in vic'try
With fiery shield to cast away the name
So whispered in the Grecian mystery.
And ever will this cycle never cease
'Til all worlds shall perish in burning peace.

A Walk

Mist rises in a mass
of silver and grey,
obscuring the path
that I know so well.
Vague outlines
of moss-covered boulders
and trees' bare branches
come up sharply
out of the silver haze.
The ground is soft
beneath my feet
and I leave my matching
imprints behind me
in the hastily fading path.
The sky above has been
concealed by a rough fabric
of interwoven branches.
Moonlight struggles down
in dappled beams of silver
and white, uneven on the trail.
I take a deep breath
of the crisp night air
and exhale, my small cloud
of white joining with
the shrouding vapors.

My Grandma's Quilt

Perfect black stitches
zig zag and cross in
perfect perpendicular seams,
corralling eccentric bursts
of mismatched color
and blocks of pattern
with a teal edge.
Yet somehow it fits together
like puzzle pieces
or knowing intuitively
the correct answer
or which path to turn on
or putting together an
outfit just so.
This, this window of fabric
and seams and thread
and pigment
broken and shattered
scattered in a hundred
different forms
hanging above the banister-
a portal to my ancestors.

The Most Beautiful Days

Puddles here and puddles there
Raindrops catching in my hair
Sparkle and glitter by my eye
As I gaze up to an overcast sky

Umbrella forgotten in the slippery road
I twirl around in the street, a wordless ode
To the beautiful clouds, so inky above
And the shower of joy that I so love

When clouds recede and puddles are dry
My last bow reaches across the sky
Glowing in all its radiant glory
And all the world in perfect harmony

Insecure

You are like the leaf
that trembles
and falls
at a breath of the wind
tumbling down
and landing perfectly
on the liquid mirror below.