Fitzgeralds'

I got started with Mike’s idea of fog. I then did a sort of ‘Round the Season’s’ in the Rogue Valley thing. It’s an intriguing form Faucon. As always, I’m not sure how well I waltz with form at all, but it was an interesting dance!


Softening Season

In late November
When the burning, dazzling leaves
Are puddled brown underfoot
And the brilliant autumn sky
Has softly sighed grey
The fog comes
Whispering against the hills
Catching in the pines
Leaving shredded cocoons of cotton
Spun out across the mountains face
From across the valley, I smile
My hands cupped around hot tea



False Spring

The blushing warmth of a specious dawning
Smiles shyly in early March
Batting eyelashes, coloring prettily
The valley flushes from slumber
With breath taking radiance
Emerald velvet wicks from the valley floor
Drinking up the umber mountain sides
All are charmed, entranced, spell bound
And then, with the cold slap of betrayal
The rains come



Mountain Metamorphosed

The Cascades of April grow vivid and verdant
Transformed by chlorophyll, translated by green
Into beings bizarre and bright
May begins baking them back to the savanna
They stretch and yawn in the summer sun
Sleepy lions curled around the valley
Purring softly across the bronzed meadows
At the silent, forever-jade of the Siskiyou pines



First Sign of Fall

One hundred degrees in the shade
There is really no point in thinking
Or moving, not much point in breathing
Air that ought to scorch your lungs with shine
Everything is glazed and glinting with the gloss of glass
In the stillness, aspen leaves suddenly tremble
Caught in a north wind
That is whispering . . .
“Gold”