Blue bonnets dotting the field.
Like a sonnet they fail to yield
the length of beauty one might desire
as in a few short weeks
they succomb to the funeral pyre
of the sun's merciless rays
and the cloud's stingy rains.
For days and wonderful days
though they sway and bow along many lanes
giving he who hunts them all that he seeks.
Yellow and black, the finch flicks
another seed from the feeder onto the bricks.
Seeking that perfect nut or berry
they never tire flitting about.
Always in a hurry,
they never tire from being free
never flinch from life's trials
travelling from tree to tree
carrying seed from and to Nature's files
interrupted only by a sudden, glad shout!
Shouting, the man walked forth into Nature
as if walking into a song with no nomenclature.
Unscripted it was, dreamlike in appearance,
trancelike in demeanor, clothed in sweet fragrances
and wondrous perfumes, hard to believe at first glance
but harder still after long contemplation.
He paused and got into a photographer's stance
trying hard to use his fleeting concentration
distracted at last by a marching army of ants
clothed in awe, formic acid and other decadances.
With difficulty he arose from his awkward pose
and strode carefully through the blooming flowers
that from newly greened grass arose
as if given leave to do so by un-earthly powers
unseen still for millenia
but seemingly in contorl of all things natural.
The sun beamed fully in his face
as he quickened his drunken pace
his voice nothing above guttural
like those chanting songs from Micronesia.
He sang to the flowers, the birds and the bees
the grasses, streams and trees.
Sang his song of wonder and honor, of thankfulness and respect.
No natural thing here this day would die from his neglect.
He bent down and, with everpresent can, watered his world
and watched the water gather amongst the roots swirled
and eddied.
All would be readied
for others to see!
Visitors to his garden, here by the Sea.
------------------------------------
mindbringer, 6 April 2013
Like a sonnet they fail to yield
the length of beauty one might desire
as in a few short weeks
they succomb to the funeral pyre
of the sun's merciless rays
and the cloud's stingy rains.
For days and wonderful days
though they sway and bow along many lanes
giving he who hunts them all that he seeks.
Yellow and black, the finch flicks
another seed from the feeder onto the bricks.
Seeking that perfect nut or berry
they never tire flitting about.
Always in a hurry,
they never tire from being free
never flinch from life's trials
travelling from tree to tree
carrying seed from and to Nature's files
interrupted only by a sudden, glad shout!
Shouting, the man walked forth into Nature
as if walking into a song with no nomenclature.
Unscripted it was, dreamlike in appearance,
trancelike in demeanor, clothed in sweet fragrances
and wondrous perfumes, hard to believe at first glance
but harder still after long contemplation.
He paused and got into a photographer's stance
trying hard to use his fleeting concentration
distracted at last by a marching army of ants
clothed in awe, formic acid and other decadances.
With difficulty he arose from his awkward pose
and strode carefully through the blooming flowers
that from newly greened grass arose
as if given leave to do so by un-earthly powers
unseen still for millenia
but seemingly in contorl of all things natural.
The sun beamed fully in his face
as he quickened his drunken pace
his voice nothing above guttural
like those chanting songs from Micronesia.
He sang to the flowers, the birds and the bees
the grasses, streams and trees.
Sang his song of wonder and honor, of thankfulness and respect.
No natural thing here this day would die from his neglect.
He bent down and, with everpresent can, watered his world
and watched the water gather amongst the roots swirled
and eddied.
All would be readied
for others to see!
Visitors to his garden, here by the Sea.
------------------------------------
mindbringer, 6 April 2013
