Tag: summer

dahlias

in one last, luminous bloom -summer erupts- golden, wondrous sun-drenched sentiment a perfectly whorled farewell © Sarah Whiteley

at Sleepy Eye

days stretched out so long, they toppled
off the end of the weathered dock
into the spring-fed cold at Sleepy Eye

among the shadows between the pilings
swam the uncatchable ghost of a walleye
(suitably fish-tale-sized)
someone years past had called Walter

every summer we saw him jump,
breaking the lake at dusk, just offshore
where the small-flies gathered
in their short-lived, tiny-winged hordes

at the splash “it’s Walter!”
we’d gasp and sit properly awed
while we envisioned the sort of net
that might finally nab him

the “growed-up” me is somewhat relieved
Walter’s remained a fish-ish myth,
dodging all the efforts and lures
of the great northern fisherman

this way, he’s stayed a childhood tale –
of firefly nights among hundred-year pines
and the hollow sound of wooden oars
striking the sides of a kid-captained boat

© Sarah Whiteley

a few dried blooms

I have reconciled myself to much lately
perhaps too much so
and now the hydrangeas
have lost their azure
bleached to bone-papered petals
kissed too closely by the sun
come fall I would have picked
bloom by bloom the dusky blues
and purples from their globes
as they dried for a bit of color
to scatter across the table
but today the possibility
vanished into dry disappointment
if I could just instead pluck
a few small pieces from the sky
of that certain blue with the gold-tinged
hue of days’ slow slide into early autumn
I would not so mind the loss
of a few dried blooms

© Sarah Whiteley

ruby-throated

here is where I begin to feel
all the familiar airs
that rush of woodsy musk
the heady hint of rum
they’ve assembled
here at thin wrists
and between breasts
to intermingle with thrums
low hums of pulse points
with infectious restlessness
and I am left as emerald-breasted
as ruby-throated as the hummingbird
we caught only glimpses of
amid the summer quince

© Sarah Whiteley

the passing pleasure of poppies

when November finds us
remembering red
processions of poppies
flooding over, up,
between the intrusions
of day’s early dying
the fragile thrall of frosted night
remembering lights
now scattered, dimly lying,
we were adrift once
with petaled profusions
on brighter winds than these

when November finds us
across this brittle distance
deep fields of sea between
the you you were
the I I was
before the burning pull
of your August lips
remember the blazing
pillared paths of hands
the pleasing pulse of poppies
the ruby red hum
of blood in throes of summer
and infinite we

© Sarah Whiteley

summer

sun warm
summer honey
clings in slow drips
to fingertips
the bees pulse in reels
honeysuckle drunk
and leaves sleepily weave
the golden hours
between cicada beats
seconds slow
and time is measured
by the gentle bend
of sweet green blades
and the dappled dance
of maple shade

© Sarah Whiteley