November, and the pollen
sets still a blanket of yellow
dust upon the ground,
as if to show how time is
just a figment, the season
a jolting confusion of praise.
The morning no longer is
honeyed, the thick heat
of rutting loosed with a slip
of cold into root systems.
The grass ever wants to
frame its path unbound
by cosmic expectations.
I'll mow but one time more,
let the blades nick the frost
-tipped ring of mums' heads
as Thanksgiving banners furl.
© 2013 Maureen E. Doallas
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
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8 comments:
I wish that we could spend a day, or a week, or a year together and I could spill out the contents of my head and you could write what you hear. The incredible beauty of the way you view things would not only be amazing to behold, but would surely provide clarity and healing. You have such a gift...
Can I come too?
And hear what you two will put out together?
Wonder what the pollen is from, and picture that of the Douglas fir, which spreads like Sahara dust over our garden at times.
My parking space where I live is beneath a cherry tree (one of the messiest trees ever) and a pine. This time of year is particularly bad, as leaves like to collect in the spaces where the windshield wipers are. I'd thought the time for pollen was past but we had a day or two in the '70s. I do think the cherry is distressed and confused.
Would love to gather with you two. Am thinking a Poet at the Table would be fun to start.
So descriptive of this wonderful season.
Fine calibration of the moment.
Yes, the season is a jolting confusion of praise...and this is a very fine poem.
Ron
Ah! It came. That golden line you place in all your poems. In this piece it's "...a jolting confusion of praise..." Bravo, Maureen. I love your work.
Lovely piece that prepares sets our minds and souls on the season...bkm
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