Reflection of the Sun

Quiet skies in August - in the
heat of the day, (23 degrees at
5 o'clock), the afternoon
baked as I raked-up the
hedge trim.  The sluice gates are
open, river-loud, tourists abroad
in my streets.  Bikes pass
and re-pass;  ours, parked,
wait.  Plants begin to turn
inward, leaves brown.  So much
to be done:  dead-head, weed,
cut grass;  today I did
what I can.  Parcel-out the
energy in packets so it lasts
the day.  Crystal air, sky of
palest blue, dusky mountain
and all up there is green.  Fires
burn in the Amazon.  Here
I have purple, orange, red
and white.  My locked gate.
Nowhere with more - all here
is pinnacle, crowned, glorious.
My heart rushes with the water.
Clan daughter robed in the
beauty of the day.  Ears are open
eyes are wide.  I miss them still.

previous poem

next poem