light dropped
from a great height
makes no sound still
words now
would be thin and
near to useless
hush, since
it’s futile to
say you are my joy,
and watch
the hummingbird search
the warm, red bricks
pretending
flowers where
there are none
© Sarah Whiteley
our forsythia doesn’t bloom, never having been properly pruned the workmen (dirty-jeaned, bantering) being more adept at paint and plumbing than the etiquette of flowers © Sarah Whiteley
I imagine the mint went first, followed closely by the flares of the nasturtiums, and the phlox the day of the uprooting the delphiniums would have been crushed, curls of pearl and sky, into the soil that fed the roses when the garden was pulled … Continue reading the uprooting
in one last, luminous bloom -summer erupts- golden, wondrous sun-drenched sentiment a perfectly whorled farewell © Sarah Whiteley
a brace of camellia buds,
pale gold and swollen,
nod knowingly in the rain
March puddles may come,
but the thrush still shouts
when he’s discovered his mate
April is at the threshold
and soon a parish of sparrows
will be singing themselves silly
in the branches of the wild plum
© Sarah Whiteley
now the jasmine’s done,
the Russian sage stands
taller, though leggy
in the September sun
and I begin to look
for purple bursts of
asters on my walks
here and there,
the anemones still bloom,
though half-droop as if
weary of the effort
to shine beside their
hardier counterparts
soon the crows will
gather in the beech tree
in raucous reunion –
a return to their winter
roost-mates and safety
in dark numbers
and I find comfort
in the crunch of leaves
the fires dripped
by trees for me to
ponder through, always
the words blooming
and roosting raucously
in my wandering head
© Sarah Whiteley
The first (and the absolute worst) of the work deadlines is past and I’ve somehow again managed to muddle through it. Tired, ruffled, feeling very behind on writing and reading, but alive all the same – and that is enough for now to be thankful for. Looking forward to a weekend of relaxing and catching up on the dusting before things pick up for the second work deadline. And I’ve got LOTS of reading to catch up on!
by the roots, you say,
but sometimes the roots
are impossible to get at
or they’ve spread immeasurable
tendrils in countless directions
so that even when pulled,
pioneers still bust the sod
and burst in yellow jeers
at all my efforts
may as well give in
(nature always wins)
and call that weed a wildflower
© Sarah Whiteley
