Mother Nature arrives with one of her blows.
Must be PMS, I say as I look
at the wind sock flying straight out on its hook.
She rampages through here, that wicked conjurer,
flinging plastic deck chairs in haste before her.
Nemesia and lobelia cling to the lee side
of the basket, where they hang, now where they hide.
She bullies young birches, to my sadness I found,
..and flings tall fireweed almost to the ground.
And then, in apology for her windy outbreak,
directs symphonies of motion, just for our sake,
And in a sensual 'coup de grace,'
brushes the seed heads of soft cotton grass.
As she circles and swirls and twists all about
I think I hear voices, but I am in doubt.
There's nobody near, just Pablo and me.
But still there's that voice, saying to me:
"Sorry 'bout the deck chair," it says with chagrin.
"Sometimes I get clumsy when I play with the wind.
I brought it to give the young swallows a lift,
that's all, I promise, it was only a gift.
"My bad on the birch, I know they're your fav.
I guess it's impossible now to be saved.
But think how much easier for you to mow;
there's another left standing beside it, you know.
"The wind brings the rain to water my land,
You know it was dry, the soil like sand.
I have a confession, 'bout this turbulent air:
The squirrel grass tickles when I run through its hair."
I love your prose AND poetry.
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