All posts tagged: summer

July 17 (in which I try to write and format a poem on a smartphone and it goes predictably badly…)

July 17, 2016
by C
comments 2
poetry

The late-July breeze, distinctive in ease, a quiet morning slipping by, I wake and say I’m here! I’m here! somehow still a fear of loss, despite the day unfolding like a lawn chair, predictable, light-weight . To have, to hold– a leaf-dappled scene a girder on the building, perforated at regular intervals and the word EMPTY over and over, is it a warning? or a confirmation . There is so much space inside these days, so little tethering […]

July 2

July 2, 2016
by C
comments 2
poetry

Morning, overcast, insistent doves. A bright gray, an unsettled wind saying soon this will all blow over.  The lake houses all full this weekend, bits of chatter from other porches, I mean, it is what it is— or nearer to home the silent neighbor, surveying his swaying grape vines . Our grapes are dusky-hued, small beads, the birds aren’t even interested yet, the basil deep green and starting to bolt– expectations a difficult thing. Still, the pepper […]

June 30

June 30, 2016
by C
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poetry

Still light as day this late the urge to linger is compelling a cesura and June gives way like a sandbank I should pack it’s not even that hot but these days there is a muggy weight to motivation why change these hours are made to sit and make plans to pin the days in place tomorrow is a new day but it isn’t here yet

June 26

June 26, 2016
by C
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poetry

Cool breeze riling the curtains the green seclusion of a melon summer is a visitor more than anything else evasive as that dream right upon waking, cut as it was ripening . In the yard we drank a thin tempranillo a dragonfly hung by with mirage wings and rhubarb stalks wilted in omnipotent heat no silence is alike varietals and temperaments and these the hands of a graceless vinter . Still light late warm skin […]

June 21

June 21, 2016
by C
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poetry

a roadside stand cherries in their sunburn hues the sky and the Chevy flat baby blue the clouds roll right off and crooked birds fall into paper hills and sometimes nothing is what comes from nothing some mylar sheeting a layer of dust

the colors of horses

June 16, 2016
by C
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poetry

I want him to know the colors of horses, to run with a cattail in his hand and watch as its seeds fly weightless as though nothing mattered, as though the little things we tell ourselves about our pasts stay there, rising slightly and just out of reach.

June 17

June 17, 2015
by C
comments 4
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Everything is bolting in the heat, sending up last gasps, small anxious leaves, scattered and flowering, even the greens in the shadiest bed giving in to reflex– panic, unbecoming, I sit in late morning’s near silence– a button strikes in the washing machine, the dog is gnashing her fur with her teeth, a jet passes low– tail, contrail, it’s motion that gives us all away– Unmoved, I eat a mealy peach.

June 6

June 6, 2015
by C
comments 12
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How much harder to write the open days– calm at dawn the morning a breeze, all windows open to prepare for later heat. The details are kind: Young maples have filled the silence between the pines with undulating green, you’d never guess just how the bank drops off– Down in the valley children scream in play, two girls wailing like teakettles, like birds of prey, and on the porch, lines of silk spark in succession — […]

May 30

May 30, 2015
by C
comments 8
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You’re making loaves of bread, now, same recipe, but each a different result, this one tasting like less but risen more. We drink in mild heat under the shade of the fruit trees, and wonder about that plant growing up the fence, with thumb-long thorns and translucent berries. It might be poisonous, you say, you’re going to pull it. A few plums, green, incipient, roll hard underfoot, not yet edible, and these, never to be. How sad, you say, it is, to be sad in Summer. The sky stays […]