I’d forgotten about the starlings –
had drowned their raucous cacophonies
in the deepening days of August
until just now, the noisome rush
plummeted into the honey locust,
whose yellow is now heavily inked
by the sudden weight of wings
© Sarah Whiteley
all you small-winged things of summer,
you flighting crickets in starred
cathedrals chanting psalms
beneath your leafy pews
all you sweet-furred creatures
gracing the sweet green shadows
under dark-limbed spruces
enchanting the August moon,
all you fragile, all you gentle
butterflied tides delighting
asters in the purple noon
all you gratefully athrive,
arise in quiet gesture –
it is joy to be alive
© Sarah Whiteley
August again,
and the jays are
leaving feathered
remembrances
in ones and threes
on the sidewalks
beneath the trees –
showing sweet-shadowed
maples the best places
for leaves to lay
come October
© Sarah Whiteley
Back with a new look! The idea is to begin incorporating my photography and art into the poetry blog (tiedtosky.wordpress.com will be phased out). To begin with, I’m working on a series of pieces with little watercolor illustrations. Hope you enjoy the new layout and the addition of my attempts at art. Looking forward to catching up with everyone!
the little house nestles
in the yellow grass
ringed round in whirs of songs
of endless summer insects
sits waiting silent in the soughs
quiet in the sweet airs
as they kiss their August songs
against the eaves
around the trees
and all along the stillness
of the white and wondering sills
the little house nestles
in the yellow grass
soft-rimmed in spires
and clamoring climbs
of creamy frothing roses
watches waiting in the hush
the dervish dances
of the dust-winged moths
in the faint radiance
of tumbling summer stars
around the trembling trellis
above the trees
beside the fence
and down the longing traces
of the brown and empty path
the little house nestles
in the yellow grass
watch-guarded by the pines
enshrined in vines
entwined in laurels greener
than the turning arc of spring
who flings her leaves upon the limbs
sits still and mute among the hills
rests soft beneath the dwindling sky
with thoughts of things like wistful wings
whose feathered fingers
brush the eaves
rush up the waiting steps
to sigh entreaties at a door
closed firm upon it all –
the little house nestles
in the yellow grass
sits closed upon the stillness,
and the singing summer sounds
of thrilling trilling insects,
sits closed to dancing moths,
to watching trees and wandering me
who stands in waiting
belating miles away
from the bending yellow grasses
with a pang that even August
will not mend
© Sarah Whiteley
in August
the evenings pulse
in insect anthems
and the curled moon bows
beneath the weight
of summer’s passing
the air presses
its grass-sweet breath
against the earth
in kisses that scorch
the first verse
of summer’s end
ebbtide 