Thursday, January 16, 2014

Yellow Quince (Poem 289)

Rainfall builds a rhythm on a 
dove-gray morning, 
only days after the barn has been filled, 
ripe autumn promise hanging,
like languid inspiration, in the air.

It is not so long since the sharp, yellow 
quince, heavily perfumed, tugged limbs 
toward the ground;
the fig's smooth white bark and fragrant 
leaves flirted with dreams of its own 
sweet, seeded flesh;
and striking, stippled-pink dahlias and flowing white jasmine coaxed songbirds 
to perch and explore the shady undersides 
of a glossy stand of azaleas.

Now--long after the delight of spring 
flowers, their pale, delicate tendrils 
fences, trees, and walls-- jays argue 
over the last, fat blackberries hidden 
in the hedges, 
and the tenderness of dandelions and willows 
gives way to earthy hues of nettles and oak.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six

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