I come from the highlands
where the wind whistles and
blows through the sweet grass
I come from forests ancient and dark
where emerald moss pads the stoic
boulders and hidden streams gurgle and bubble
I come from the crashing ocean
salt spray and stinging mists
where soft sand and waves tickle your toes
I come from the mountains
where resinous pines and firs
are my incense and perfume
I come from the meadows at night
where you look up to see
millions of lights twinkling down
The stars are my friends
The trees whisper their kinship
The streams tinkle my name
The ocean calls me home
My home is my family
safe and warm
where I can be me
But I come from. . .
I was reading Poemcrazy by Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge and one section was on where I come from. Not actually come from, since that was the Bay Area, but where I felt I belonged. I think that is a broad answer, where I’m from, since I feel like I’m from a lot of places. Or I just happen to like a lot of places. I wonder if they are one and the same.
I hope you all enjoy. I spit this one out today while eating lunch and scribbling with my fountain pen in my journal.
Image via Wikipedia
It’s a cold autumn morning, but it’s not
as crackling grasses shudder in the cold north wind
deer hunt for succulent greens
their backs turned to the biting force
only the calendar says it’s March
those grids of numbers and lines
words to trick us into believing
that warmth is just around the corner
but I’m not fooled
I know that it’s still autumn
As the cold wind blows.
Okay, well I looked out the window this morning to see deer grazing in the open pasture behind the house. The wind was blowing a very cold draft from the north, biting and with the brown grasses blowing, it felt and looked just like autumn. Three days ago it was a balmy early spring day, but not so much today. It’s frigid, and cold, and I do not want to be outside.
We sat there in the sun, my sister and I, baking, warming from an altogether freezing dip in the pool. Though 73 is far from cold, it was a shock to our systems. Rugburn, my dachshund, crashes in the sun, drying from his unwanted swim in the pool. He rubs his face dry in the long grass. Scratching, Rubbing. Rolling. A lazy, contented daze crosses his face as he stares at a floating hover fly a few from him.
The sun has that September feel to it. Burning, but subtly different from the blazing, burn of July. More hazy. I feel the heat from it, warming my back. A warm breeze blows down from the mountain, bringing the sweet resinous scent of pines that have baked all day in the sun. Warm sweetness of dried grasses intertwine with dry dusty earth. A brush of sweet smoke. A faint flavor of cow manure graces the breeze. Not unpleasant.
The lawn is weedy again. With plantain seed heads and wide-bladed meadow grass that grows three times faster than the soft mountain grass. It needs to be mowed, but then it will lose it’s last summer feel to revert back to the clipped neatness of full on summer.
Sunflowers are heavy with seeds, though the golden disks are still blooming wildly at the top of ten foot spires. The trees are heavy with winded seeds. Rustling gently in the wind. There is a lazy feel to everything as flies buzz restlessly. The yarrow has gone to seed. Weedy heads like too tall trees sway slightly. Stellars jays chatter raucously as they fly over. Landing to call from a tree.
Tomatoes are ripening. Bright red globes of juicy sweetness. Sweet berries hidden in cane patches demand munching. Grapes hang from spiraled vines. Warm and sweet with juice. Golden hard squashes ripen on vigorous growing vines. Consuming flat ground, seeking purchase.
I watched a dragonfly zip by a wheelbarrow before landing for a moment. Rusty brown with etherial wings. He buzzed off in a hurry, to who knows where.
This weather demands pitchers of iced tea and good books to be read on a porch swing. Naps to be taken in a hammock. Endless games of croquet to be played leisurely.