I. SUMMER
Oh, under winds of brush-fire
Sweeping down the valley’s chasm,
Churning up the animal muck
Which flees from petulant wrath
Only to be blood broth
For new woodland hums—
Smile kindly upon descendants of wrath,
Who so desperately cling to the mossy foundation,
And sweep up the inclement mass,
Who so want the foul fruits of temptation—
Mark a beast in lieu of sabotage;
They will not transgress
Amid the foul earthquakes
Which invoke doubt and remorse.
II. AUTUMN
Silent cicada hums:
A vacuum left behind
From shrieking cacophonies of sound
Which make the day fertile of impending decay—
A remorseless shift
That upends the harmony of light:
So many bask here, not seeking to return
From the shrieks of the wind
Which make the leaves burn
In the dying light.
III. INTERIM
Husks of plains crack into mud;
Brittle is the ground few tread upon.
The infant is born, blessed with a wet cough,
A mother tries to hold back her moans—
Heaving, sprawling, blood-on-the-floor,
The ground is tough, and quakes.
IV. WINTER
Finally, a respite among chaos—
The fabric of noise is deceased
And rendered a stinging chord,
Where matters of all kinds are expelled
From the cracks and calamities of the hearth.
A gift for you, my dear,
A small fortune bestowed
To keep the curdling of wrath at bay—
We hum a tune as dinner is made.
We strike up a chord in an infantile way.
We slip out at night to look at the stars—
And return with frost-bitten lips
Only to be comforted by long-simmered stew:
A poached rabbit from the estate,
A bit of wine left over from Christmas,
A large clove of garlic (and a sprig of dill),
A bushel of turnips from the garden,
All in a bone broth
From the dairy cow slaughtered in fall.
V. SPRING
Who is left to witness the plains unfurling, the flowers perking up around
the brush slipping up with supple leaves, the saplings springing into the
serviceable sun, so much it quivers.
It is ready to unleash fury.
I can only look, and wonder how the spectacle continues to shrink.
But the land still beckons: a little Arcadia.