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 Title   [ Click any title below to view poem ]  Poet More From Poet  Date
 May 3, 2016 tony parsons        (More) 5/3/2016
 Language is consciousness assisi        (More) 4/30/2016
 Good morning Mr Robin Starlight1        (More) 4/28/2016
 Floes tony parsons        (More) 4/27/2016
 The Veil SerenityAura        (More) 4/23/2016
 Magic Jen_Saunders        (More) 4/22/2016
 May your corn fields never fail assisi        (More) 4/22/2016
 SOFT AND GENTLE listener        (More) 4/15/2016
 EARTH AWAKES hollydar        (More) 4/15/2016
 SPRING listener        (More) 4/14/2016
 Willie Wagtail cherryk        (More) 4/14/2016
 Evicted by the Sun dave.wynter        (More) 4/13/2016
 Springtime Lula-by norman        (More) 4/13/2016
 April Showers Emotionalman        (More) 4/11/2016
 TELOPEA SPECIOSISSIMA hollydar        (More) 4/9/2016
 NODDING BANKSIA poetalthomas        (More) 4/8/2016
 Awakened Peggy Paris        (More) 4/8/2016
 SPRING SMILES hollydar        (More) 4/8/2016
 Deserts Leon_Newton        (More) 4/7/2016
 Caves Leon_Newton        (More) 4/7/2016
 The mountains Leon_Newton        (More) 4/7/2016
 Noon on a perfect spring day Leon_Newton        (More) 4/7/2016
 GLORIOUS GAIN listener        (More) 4/7/2016
 Springtime norman        (More) 4/6/2016
 The secrets of man and the beasts. Leon_Newton        (More) 4/6/2016
 BEAUTIFUL YELLOW FRIEND listener        (More) 4/6/2016
 Pondlife Debera        (More) 4/6/2016
 guess DiAngelo        (More) 4/6/2016
 become the vine DiAngelo        (More) 4/6/2016
 Our blue green earth Leon_Newton        (More) 4/5/2016

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May 3, 2016

the leaves, with delicate green
tempt a late May frost.

A sudden burst one day, and they are there, in a haze of - I always say chartreuse. Maybe there is another word for that shade of yellow-green. Maybe I should say, apple-jade. Maybe it is just a mood - and yet I think of frost.

early summer-spring
I watch for wild rose blossoms
in fragile cerise.

I call it summer-spring, for it explodes, almost full-blown, not two seasons, really, but one. A rush of green, a moment of cerise - of buds, then blooms, (that would be scarlet if the shade were not of pink) exuberance - of bud, then blossom, then a fade to almost white, before the petals fall and leave deep orange-umber hips. Almost a distillation of a human life, or so it seems . . .

green leaves opening
under milling gray-cloud skies
winter's breath

And yet a chill still lingers in the air. Lurking in the white snow patches on the mountainsides, there in the clouds that can't decide if they will part and let the sun shine through - or maybe snow, in some great cosmic joke upon the mortals here below. (Though humor of the greater force of the universe, escapes my mortal mood, here so close to the dry dun sod, with its first sprigs of green.) But I have seen frost come, sometimes, in first soft-blue days of June.

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