These Flecks of Summer

1.

Pink parasols everywhere:
mountain laurel releases
confetti at the feet
of two bickering cardinals
in a seed fight.  Snaps one:
chip, chip.  Cheer, cheer,
the other—their red robes
slappingthe thicket.
Slicing into view, a third
bandit:  black-barred, blue
as a Caribbean bay.
Another, another, the feeders
flutter:  a woodpecker
feathers the angry boys.
The birds disperse.
Their fits and starts linger:
soulful like a rain-flurry.

2.

A storm pounds the peninsula,
summer’s weather mutable:
one minute heavy showers
push through, the next:
a savory sun.  Bees leave
the gazebo’s eaves, swarm
toward begonias, their jubilant
dance giddy.  Like gusts
of milkweed, they swirl.
Sticky nectar sugars
their tongues.  Honeycombs
teem with amber sweetness
in harsh July heat
when the creek kicks up
steamy air and stirs the bees’
need to leave something
nourishing behind.

3.

All summer in woods
mountain laurel, hollies,
white oaks beg for rain.
Any amount will stop
their thirst, but ninety-
degree heat bears down.
June slips by, July creeps
to August, and then one day
drops fall steadily until
maples silver, the light
appearing in downpours—
replenishing amid the hum
of all things natural.

4.

On loblolly-green, a frescoed
darkness falls, barely visible
in jacklight.  Fireflies, lucent,
blink once, again.  Split-second
later, mist showers wisteria,
catches moisture’s unfurling
twirl, limbs braiding into ladders.
The yodeling moon climbs,
piggish for a slice of time,
for an hour or two alone
in storied skies without
freewheeling storms.
The moon pours over stubs
of zinnias, asters, sunflowers
that push through lampblack
soil, yielding to night’s fragrance,
to her gloss and shine.

5.

Bearded irises appear,
jouvence-blue, and expand
their supple wings.  Cut,
they spread throughout
the house in ornamental
porcelain.  Regal
like guardians of dusk,
luminous lanterns,
they brighten the room.
Blue and pink-skirted
tulips and phlox,
shrill-voiced, trumpet
among leaves.  On the table
by the stucco wall,
they step out, dazzling
in swift eddies of air.

6.

Late August, my garden over-
flows:  food for butterflies
and hummingbirds, blurry
slivers whittled and shaped
into stubby wings racing.
A hint of ginger, nutmeg,
sage, and I’m nourished
on profusion, wonder
which spices heal as well
as brisk showers, saucy
birdcall, honey-cinnamon tea.
By herb pots, I stoop,
fill jars marked parsley,
rosemary, fennel.  For winter
I select the densest tufts—
soft as bearded irises,
as I imagine the expansive
moon is to the touch.
I’ll sprinkle them over
salads, meats, fish:
these curative dried flecks
of summer, marsh-aqua
and bird-foot mint.

Published in River Country (San Francisco Bay Press, 2008) and Nimrod.