A scorched moonscape slashed across the mountain;
Smudgy charcoal tree stumps stood shadowy
against the sore earth.
A rough restless wind blew
ghosts of green grass memory and
a hawk soared high, searching
for warm rodents nestled under the ground.
The springs still seep water; soon seeds will sprout.
Ground squirrels will whistle to each other,
bright on blackened boulders.
I know balance will return;
That the brush is cleansed and renewed.
Ashes will bear life, but
right now it looks like a barren wasteland.
I see your eyes teasing twinkle blue dancing light,
or sparkle proud bright shiny wet
at the corners.
Your hands large, strong, busy building fences;
and fingers thick, stiff, fish hook scarred
with nails chewed short –
rubbing my back and pulling me close.
Is it any wonder my heart swells
like a tulip lifting its face to the sun
and exploding orange red with happiness?
Gardening on Minden Drive in Yorba Linda, California
The green grass crushed
beneath my jeans as I knelt
and pulled weeds from the ground.
The soft soil, damp and rich,
released the weeds easily,
their delicate roots brushing myhand.
The sun warmed the back of my neck
and a blue jay hopped nearby,
his bright eyes watching me.
Dirt rained down, shaken from theroots.
I threw them, limp, in a pile.
My marriage is dead.
My feet walk the frozen fields,
the hard unyielding earth
holding my cold heart;
A flicker stirs within,
nudging a fresh awakening of
memories and consequences.
a permeable fabric
woven of whispered wishes.
The flame burns hot,
Spitting sparks of truth
That sear and shock.
The fire passes,
leaving warm embers.
Their ashes nourish
my parched earth.
Fields of serenity
replace the stony ground.
Golden poppies blossom and
scatter their seeds.
This poem was written using the following Sunday Whirl wordle prompt. Pop over for more poetry using this week’s words.