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May’s departure reminds us
That winter’s wool jacket
Has been replaced
With spring’s fabric sandals

The morning frost
That caked our windshields
Is now but a glossy dew
That lays upon the grass

The late December chill
That weathered our flesh
And consumed our warmth
No longer can feast

June’s prelude will refresh us
The endless sunshine and subtle breeze
Will nourish us in preparation
For winter’s arrival once again
Mysidian Bard Dec 2019
Upon the deathbed of Old Man Winter
Autumn placed her golden crown,
and as his heart began to thaw
he helped Spring lace her morning gown.
Kalliope Nov 2019
feast your eyes onto this
soak it in
milk, blood, cherubim, and all
feast your eyes on this atrocity;
atrocity, tragedy, calamity
you can't help but look anyhow

tosses me into his bed
tosses me into his garden along with the tulips and chicken bones
waits for me to sprout next spring
i wonder how she'll be-
how she'll bloom
she'll spit ichor and honey through her teeth
annual or perennial
we'll never know

fret not, fret not-
breathe in the summer night
throw yourself down into the garden
bare your neck to the rose bush and forget it all
forget the cherubim
forget the milk
save the blood
save her
annh Sep 2019
They spoke to me of evenfall and dayspring, the solstice and the equinox. They sang of eras, epochs, and eons. On indigo nights, they whispered in the owl light of alchemy and enchantment, wreathing my cot with an iridescence which illuminated my dreams and begentled my slumber.

At Hallowtide, they scribed lyrical pathways in the air and sculpted rainbow arcs. They celebrated the vernal majesty of April and October's autumnal reprise with moonglade pageantry and sunset flourishes. They conjured blackberry winters and gypsy summers, and laughed at my amazement, as if to say: ‘Told you so!’

As the years departed my second decade and encroached alarmingly upon my third, I began to question why they had chosen me; why we walked together apart and apart together. I wondered where the magic ended and I began, and I realised with the bone-breaking chill of the unwelcome inevitable, just how lost I would be without it.

‘Magic exists. Who can doubt it, when there are rainbows and wildflowers, the music of the wind and the silence of the stars?’
- Nora Roberts
Sam Hawkins Sep 2018
I've known heights, aimed like a bullet
to the top of the head.

Forbidden songs, jagging
placid landscapes.

Waterblood waterbone --
my body cries out to me.

How long the abuse, how long!

In the barreled pit of my sober life
up from common sense--snapping into it,
my soul came alive.
Alive I say!

By grace I breached.
Free in the wind!

Kingdoms of water, alive kingdoms --
hear now the words of my tears.

Mea Culpa!

I slam on the brakes, tear off the roofs
of steel compartments.

I see sky and feel in daylight every hidden star.
I declare -- the emperor of death
has no clothing.

I scatter forgiveness
across all the fattened streets.

Oceans of me are singing.
A spinning angels' symphony.

Over the graves of ancestors,  I vow:

Water, I shall love you.
I shall speak up, shall protect you.

I shall fight for you and die
if I must.

Ten times ten give my very life
-- that you live.
this is how water (which is so under attack from all sides on our planet) spoke through me 9.23.18, around the time of fall equinox.
Jessi Apr 2019
as vibrant flowers press
their beginnings
from the frozen ground
i untangle
my body
your body
i am the primavera diosa
bringer of new life
of what existed
between us
at new beginnings

as ice melts
from the blazing sun
i let out a sigh
releasing my feelings
for you
and thawing
the earth
around me
i am the warmest
the softest
thing you will ever
get your hands on
a way
of seeing
the glory
was harry
but retort
future warning
as thus
her earring's
a drift
and upon
this ceiling
rift was
her full
circle blithe
and the
first day
of spring
First sun-warmed sand
First boots-and-socks-off beach
First ankle-deep stand in rushing water
First SPF rubbed on my face
First crocus pops up in the yard

Nearby, a young father begins
to teach his toddling young
how to fish.

Last high-country snowshoe
Last low-country woodstove fire
Last hot bourbon toddy
Last dreamy days of Pisces
Last longing for lost love melts away

Early over the mountain
the nearly-but-not-yet worm moon
spies the confluence and I below.

Here at the place where things change,
the wild world fills me
and I devote myself once more.

For one who is in love with the chase
And the glory of all things yet-to-be done,
The true rapture of Nature is in knowing
She is too Big, Wild, and Free to own.
(Like me.)
Lady Ravenhill Mar 2019
Winter without snow
Tranquil and turbulent winds
March into spring
@LadyRavenhill 2019
Haiku #90
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