seasons

if truth be told,

there are no real seasons; no plausible

connections to the cold. Only

that at certain times

we push damp towels into the door jam

so that boneless mice might not squeeze their

bodies into warmth. 

I wrote a poem last evening about their great migration:

the onomatopoeia of it. How the soul of everything

searches for that certain buzz

that suggests the eternal voice. Then how that voice lays

dormant, perhaps slothful

until the image of meadows

corrals the conspectus of learning. As if Lewis and Clark

didn't think twice about

having to eat the flesh of uncooked buffalo's

while discovering the great North West 

then sat their foil asses on the ground, writhing for

Pepto Bismol. This past hot summer burned up my lawn,

so I fertilized it in June which burned it up even more.

So I stopped doing everything and it became green again.

Then the neighbors boy played in it's glade

and ran for his ball.

Reviews

[Beccy]

Nature knows best; always has, always will, and though our species may seem at odds most times, deep down we understand this truth; just as we understand we are granted only so many seasons.

Your voice is so unique.

Beccy.

[h d e rushin]

that's right Beccy. We only get so many of these, let's call them seasons since others have called them just that. Then what happens? the unknown is a season itself. Thank you my friend....dana

[W.k.kortas]

Our lives, measured by the mouse haunted by climate and little boys and their bouncing balls. Ah, you.

[h d e rushin]

only minutes from Monday night football. You poets know well what passion is like....Love you so much...dana

[Ed Hart]

you have such a wide ranging palette, and such dexterity with the notions and details...like an old Buddhist monk, a passenger on the long tracks of time

[h d e rushin]

"Old" is the optimum word here dear Ed. thank you my dear friend. dana

[jacob erin-cilberto]

we do anything to hang on to our summer....if only we could be young again...but that migration south is going to happen no matter what we try to do to stave it off....

j.

[h d e rushin]

you better believe it jacob. "that migration south"
is a euphemism for needing an alchemist. thank you my friend. dana