rain greens torpid grass
cool nights frost trees with yellow
nature, tired, yawns
Posts Tagged ‘seasons’
Rotation
Posted in Creativity, Poetry, tagged autumn, creative writing, Poetry, quiet living, seasons, Writing on 26 Sep 2024| Leave a Comment »
Garden Party
Posted in Gardening, Poetry, Seattle, tagged autumn, fall color, fall colors, Garden, modern poetry, Poetry, seasons on 21 Sep 2023| 2 Comments »
sumac, feathered fronds waving, hear it first
autumn’s gentle rapping on the garden gate
put on parti-colored togs to greet the arrival
nearby maples eavesdrop on the reunion
catch half the meaning but all the sense of joy
don festive gloves on five-fingered leaves
sweetgum and dogwood wake with a start
having overslept in summer’s waning sun
leaves blushing with groggy embarrassment
wisteria, in denial, refuses to join the fun
and with tendril fingers in viny ears
will sing la-la-la until their guest departs
evergreen elders tower over the festivities
enjoying the youthful exuberance at their feet
preparing for storms they know will come
When the Dark Trees Sizzle
Posted in Seattle, Writing, tagged creative writing, Poetry, quiet living, seasons, Seattle, urban wildlife, vignettes on 20 Oct 2016| 2 Comments »
I walk to work
The same hour each day
And make a time-lapse film
Frame by frame
To capture the passing year.
Buildings fall into vacant lots,
Rise from the rubble.
Storms flash overhead.
Cars blur past
Dreary commuters
Taking dreary steps
Toward dreary jobs.
But along the sidewalk,
Sweetgums grow
Tall, stately, serene,
Life in the grey and black canyons.
In winter, they sleep.
I walk wet pavement
Beneath dark, dripping skeletons.
With springtime sun,
Acid green buds
Burst open in an eyeblink
To shake new leaves
In the morning air.
My summer path leads
Beneath crinoline branches,
Silken leaves rustling,
Lazing in the light.
Autumn comes and the sun,
Tired out by long days,
Grows tardy.
The sweetgums sport fall fashions and,
For a few brief frames,
The sunrise and I,
Bleary-eyed,
Collars turned against the season’s chill,
Walk the streets together.
The sky is a purple shell.
The air is still.
The trees are dark,
Their branches garbed in orange and rust.
They do not rustle.
They do not shake.
They sizzle.
Deep within them, hidden by dying leaves,
A thousand starlings wake.
They greet the sunrise with
Gricks and whistles,
Creaks and pips.
I stand smiling
Beneath a thousand chittering mouths,
Listening to
The sound of butter in a hot skillet.
Sizzle. Pop. Hiss. Flutter. Zing.
A few more days,
A few more frames,
And the sun lags behind me.
The sweetgums now are silent,
Branches laden with sleeping birds.
Later still,
Once the trees drop their leafy frocks,
The starlings leave the city to winter’s cold,
And once more I walk alone
Beneath dark and bony boughs.
k
Summer Ends
Posted in Culture, Seattle, tagged autumn, autumnal equinox, changing seasons, dewy morning, fog, last days of summer, nature, seasons, Seattle, summer, summer grass, weather on 19 Sep 2012| 2 Comments »
It fades, Summer does. It does not leave in a rush or slip away overnight. It fades, its brilliance seeping into the ground, the sky, the air.
At first, it cedes the night, relenting in the early hours, allowing the world at last to breathe and with a cooling sigh to sleep, finally, sleep.
Then the evenings fade. The sun, now tired from its summer’s work, runs low across the sky and gently slides toward twilight, returning hours it once commanded back to moon and stars.
Today, the morning faded, too, as gentle fog hid the buildingtops and seagulls mewed above, unseen. The streets were mist, the sky a blanket, and every streetlamp was a halo-shrouded gem.
The afternoon now is Summer’s only realm, but not for long; its threats are all worn out, its bark now has no bite. Flanked on either side by dewy morning and the star-shot dusk, it has no time to muster strength and soon will leave the field. The gold of summer grass will green, the green of summer leaves will rust and blaze, and Autumn, soon, will come into her own.
Summer’s nearly done. It’s fading as we speak.
k
Kurt R.A. Giambastiani 