june 6, the last spring,first summer day this year[an old poem]

the river has stopped rising
      trees are in it up to their hips
           there are no islands anywhere
                only birch and aspen swaying
                      in water     their hair     a shimmer

of green and yellow light     I sit on the porch
      my hair     gathers seeds     white fluff
           pods     fine yellow pollen     a dark butterfly
                passes by in the wind another shimmering light-
                     catching thing     starlings whistle     sky

story-book sky all blue with sweet white
      clouds     sun lays its buttery hand across
           clover     columbine     tulips     smooth river
                stones in the garden     this small poem is
                     for mariah     on this     her eighteenth birthday

Mariah is 27 today.

Comments

[Kate S.]

I loved that part about the dark butterfly passing by, another shimmering light-catching thing...

We have snow -- aspen seeds, snowing down in profusion, from a complete invasion of the little "miner" larvae, graffiti artists, scratching trails across and back, zig-zagging the leaves in silver ink that says, "I was here."

According to the newspaper, the infiltration is so profuse, that all the aspens in the entire Interior have been affected, hillsides shimmering in silver displays, not quite gaudy yet, subdued in stately elegance, like trim on the queen's new hat. In response, the trees say: "I am stressed. I will now snow down my seed, wrapped in protective, aerodynamic fluff, to be carried on the wind, my legacy in case I die."

It's so bad, we could not cast out nor reel in our lines properly, the cotton-like balls covering every surface, blanketing the lake, grabbing on to any surface, hundreds wound up wrapped around our spools, looking like balls of yarn made of cashmere.