Like the moon she swims in darkness.
She gives, and only hands can block her gifts.
She wraps herself in blues and greens
and tastes of loam and snow, of marmalade
and rolling thunder.
Summer hides within the everglades with her,
and plays upon her belly.
But Summer’s knees are getting older now,
older as the rocking earth a slower,
slower movement makes.
She sleeps, and quiet trees and green birds
with eyes like conduits to god record and watch
the burst with which, too late,
summer struggles to be free,
and gasping, drowns in autumn.
mine enemy grows older 
Beautiful. I’m home. Hello!
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Nice redeux of your older poem, or at least re-placement, as in putting it out there again. It is lovely, riddled with love, and shadows; possibly about pregnacy, about family, about mother nature, about the earth itself, losing its fecundincy to our ignorance. I think when I rummaged through your archives back in the day, I found this poem, or part of it, and posted it on my site. I still love it though.
Glenn
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Hey Jo, been waitin’ for ya. How was the time away. Switching to back channel – Hello? Hello?
Glenn, how was the weekend? Thanks for the comment on the poem. I’ve been moving in a blurr this past week. No time to write, just wanted to work on something, get it out there.
This is an older piece, one which has always mystified me. Gender pronouns originally all mixed up. Had no idea what I was saying when I wrote it but it seemed something interesting. Probably forcing it just to get something out there. Need to spend some time with it, let it grow, let it tell me what it wants to be, what I am trying to say to myself… what the muse is trying to say to me.
Thanks for spurring the thinking.
oh, and I’ll fix that title you mentioned.
Rick
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I relish the ethereal in it, that speaks to me. And how the poem is ‘open’ to interpretation — for some, it can be related to reality, for me I’d like to confine myself in its reference to the divine, to the mythical, to Greek gods, goddesses, and demi-gods whose sentiments can form the force of nature itself. (By nature, I’m more of an escapist first, a realist second, when I read poetry, hence my intense liking for this piece.)
Cheers.
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