towering and sheltering
shading and nourishing
a blossoming innocence
of suckled sweetness

draped in wand pods
sowing magical seeds
sprouting sapling bridges
between hoping and knowing

fluttering metamorphosis
butterflies of the night
seeking the light of home
dimmed within memory

though storms may wail
these roots run deep
though lightening strikes
these wings have spread

Dark around my house sounds
Scratch of little claws on tiny feet across my front porch
Rough slide and tumble of a dry leaf on the patio
Faint hoofsteps pointing noses to where my green Hosta grows
Flap of Catalpa leaves in an unexpected but welcome summer breeze
Neighbor's door and then the cover on her garbage can
   Then her door again
Dead branch falling through the maple tree to the ground
The call of an owl
  furious perhaps
  hungry
  having missed the tiny claws on my porch

in the catalpa tree
beautiful daddy flits
and flutters by
plane jane mama sits
in the branches
on patrol
spring  storms savage
this little winged family
  Lily cat's restless prowl
anticipates the promise of eggs
nothing
is ever guaranteed

Crocuses and forsythia
Herald spring is close at hand;
A time when seeds shed their coats,
And the days become more grand.

A time when the flowers wake up,
With foliage robust and green;
When freezing weather says farewell,
And the spring flowers can be seen.

In April  there are sweet lilacs,
Bradford pear petals fill the air;
I wish they would be eating pears,
As real profuse these trees would bear.

When May's catalpa trees blossom,  
The trees' flowers have a  are bell - shape;      
Their white flowers have purple throats,
Light fragrance from these blooms  escape.  

Roses and so many flowers,
Make a real, rare, picturesque  sight;
Amidst drapes of catalpa blooms,
There is a sight of grand delight.

With  limbs of white catalpa blooms,,      
The catalpa trees are well draped;
Their blooms release a light fragrance,     
What a lovely place well landscaped.

Maytime romance under the vernal lamp
of creation
Wrapped with invisible arms
Under the spell of sylvan charms
Appeasing lanes embellished-
with pink Begonia and baby-blue -eyes
Catalpa trees blushing in the marmalade sky
Strawberry thoughts , young lessons-
from green pinecones
Brandy freshwater branches fill river neighbor-
saplings
Nuthatch mothers sing of the day in sunflower gardens

Shine on, O moon of summer.
Shine to the leaves of grass, catalpa and oak,
All silver under your rain to-night.

An Italian boy is sending songs to you to-night from an
     accordion.
A Polish boy is out with his best girl; they marry next
     month; to-night they are throwing you kisses.

An old man next door is dreaming over a sheen that sits
     in a cherry tree in his back yard.

The clocks say I must go--I stay here sitting on the
     back porch drinking white thoughts you rain down.

          Shine on, O moon,
Shake out more and more silver changes.

IF you, that have grown old, were the first dead,
Neither catalpa tree nor scented lime
Should hear my living feet, nor would I tread
Where we wrought that shall break the teeth of Time.
Let the new faces play what tricks they will
In the old rooms; night can outbalance day,
Our shadows rove the garden gravel still,
The living seem more shadowy than they.

How fast fade most pinkest trees
How digits dance 'neath Catalpa breeze
Ignoring last October's deadest death
They arrived on time then took last breaths

Scattered seeds among their foes
Had no need of planting earthen work
As cycles shadow ploughman's dream
The fickle fruitless cherry grows

He rode rough crests over wildest waves
His ship stayed unsunk under skinny toil
His family landed and held holiest hope
Now blossom buds over grassy graves

Darkness darkened darkest health
Metal sheets broke bones full force
Lungs would not get the care of air
But hours still channeled wisdom wealth

She bent the knee for sacred loves
She scraped it on the firmest strife
Her pies nor pulchritude but soul inspired
Now stillness stays beneath starry moves

When bloodiest blood ****** didn't produce
It drained itself from veins and strained
Veiling valleys making mountains make-believe
But sharpest tongue emptiness refused

What meagre maggots worthless worms
Are those of us who never yearn!
We rarely learn to live so well as they
Who gave us genes and grace and days

All I offer oft only when I try and I work
Nothing else can I do nor more can I hope
This most modest shallowest honor to give
Of them in springtime remembering is

Early dusk and it's as if
all the birds have memorized
lullabies; they've quieted
to delicate refrains
as the summer sun descends
flame orange and spent
to its western berth. Birds huddle
deep within the cradling
catalpa trees and murmur
in their soft way to one other,
barely audible to those who
would listen, perhaps
reassuring each other that
the night will not be long.

--

I.

Ye winds, ye unseen currents of the air,
  Softly ye played a few brief hours ago;
Ye bore the murmuring bee; ye tossed the hair
  O'er maiden cheeks, that took a fresher glow;
Ye rolled the round white cloud through depths of blue;
Ye shook from shaded flowers the lingering dew;
Before you the catalpa's blossoms flew,
  Light blossoms, dropping on the grass like snow.

II.

How are ye changed! Ye take the cataract's sound;
  Ye take the whirlpool's fury and its might;
The mountain shudders as ye sweep the ground;
  The valley woods lie prone beneath your flight.
The clouds before you shoot like eagles past;
The homes of men are rocking in your blast;
Ye lift the roofs like autumn leaves, and cast,
  Skyward, the whirling fragments out of sight.

III.

The weary fowls of heaven make wing in vain,
  To escape your wrath; ye seize and dash them dead.
Against the earth ye drive the roaring rain;
  The harvest-field becomes a river's bed;
And torrents tumble from the hills around,
Plains turn to lakes, and villages are drowned,
And wailing voices, midst the tempest's sound,
  Rise, as the rushing waters swell and spread.

IV.

Ye dart upon the deep, and straight is heard
  A wilder roar, and men grow pale, and pray;
Ye fling its floods around you, as a bird
  Flings o'er his shivering plumes the fountain's spray.
See! to the breaking mast the sailor clings;
Ye scoop the ocean to its briny springs,
And take the mountain billow on your wings,
  And pile the wreck of navies round the bay.

V.

Why rage ye thus?--no strife for liberty
  Has made you mad; no tyrant, strong through fear,
Has chained your pinions till ye wrenched them free,
  And rushed into the unmeasured atmosphere;
For ye were born in freedom where ye blow;
Free o'er the mighty deep to come and go;
Earth's solemn woods were yours, her wastes of snow,
  Her isles where summer blossoms all the year.

VI.

O ye wild winds! a mightier Power than yours
  In chains upon the shore of Europe lies;
The sceptred throng, whose fetters he endures,
  Watch his mute throes with terror in their eyes:
And armed warriors all around him stand,
And, as he struggles, tighten every band,
And lift the heavy spear, with threatening hand,
  To pierce the victim, should he strive to rise.

VII.

Yet oh, when that wronged Spirit of our race
  Shall break, as soon he must, his long-worn chains,
And leap in freedom from his prison-place,
  Lord of his ancient hills and fruitful plains,
Let him not rise, like these mad winds of air,
To waste the loveliness that time could spare,
To fill the earth with wo, and blot her fair
  Unconscious breast with blood from human veins.

VIII.

But may he like the spring-time come abroad,
  Who crumbles winter's gyves with gentle might,
When in the genial breeze, the breath of God,
  Come spouting up the unsealed springs to light;
Flowers start from their dark prisons at his feet,
The woods, long dumb, awake to hymnings sweet,
And morn and eve, whose glimmerings almost meet,
  Crowd back to narrow bounds the ancient night.

leaves' worms, great fish bait
white flowers with purple throats
the catalpa trees

I remember driving down the sun-baked
city street, on a mission to find
something, somewhere, which
now I cannot remember.
But I do remember this: you pulled
the truck aside and said, “Go grab some of
those pods off those trees.”
When I protested you simply gestured
for me to get going.
To this day, I still have mimosa and catalpa beans
stashed away in an old cigar box, silk trees
waiting to be planted in the
rich, dark earth.

White catalpa blooms caressed -
my soul
A morning jaunt through cool , knee high 'wiregrass'  -                         bound for Camp Creeks wisteria hollow
A cardinal was a long lost friend
A bluebird mourned of withered love
A mockingbird fervent in the hope -
of tomorrow

Somewhere buried deep beneath your family albums,
Mother’s Day cards, embroidered pillow cases,
Canadian coins and high school yearbooks
there is a  hidden picture of you and  me
under the  limbs of a flowering Catalpa
tree.  It only sees light on uncommon
days when you are alone.