STRING QUARTET NO. 4

I sit on my patio
listening to Beethoven’s String Quartet No. 4 in C minor
as the sun melds into the ionosphere,
dusk brushing the treetops

Unseen starlings chirp in counterpoint
to the morose movements,
violins evocatively weeping and celebrating
the composer’s vision

Lightning bugs spark in lockstep to the meter,
their jittery flight outlined in the gasping light.
Crickets, hunkered down in the shrubbery like insurgents,
provide the choral flourish that encapsulates
the flawless collaboration between Beethoven
and mid-summer dusk

MAGICICCADA

They are a tidal wave of life
          washing over farmland and forest
          yard and prairie

stirring from their seventeen year senescence
          to emerge en masse like a
          marauding army of winged warriors

eyeballs like ruby ball bearing
          wings as slight as Kleenex
          their mating call a staggering ninety decibel screech

like a million transmissions grinding
          in unison solely
          to attract a mate

I cannot blame them
          for I, too, would howl at ninety decibels  
          if I had to wait seventeen years between mating periods

TRAVELING LIGHT

I wish we could spend
         all our days together on the road

While I drive
         you would talk to me as America flashes by

As we tunnel
         past the predawn dew you would fall asleep

and I would adjust your blanket
         to keep away the snap of the morning chill

There will be corridors of silence
         where I will catch the sound of your breathing

And when we nestle
         like spring sparrows in the verdant arms of the Smokies

or flit over Florida sands
         like children in the throes of natural harmony

or hang glide in the clouds
         that crown the Rockies like a triumphant wreath

I will reach out and touch your hand
         as you gaze out the window

at the fixed path of highway
         as secure and preordained as our travels together

ONE JULY EVENING


Evening was sheathed
                    in a collective stillness

neither twig nor limb,
                   flower or bush

so much as fluttered or swayed.
                   It was as if nature held its breath.

The scent of milkweed and hostas
                   lingered like a lover’s perfume.

Mosquitoes twirled in the moonlight
                   to the locked cadence of chirping crickets.

And as the summer day
                   unraveled itself for slumber

its protracted sigh fell over the yard
                    like a gossamer blanket

under which we could wiggle our toes
                     and giggle till sunrise

July 1

It is pleasant in the shade

You sit across from me
absorbed in a novel
while I chisel away at a poem

However, I stop to watch you read,
the book laying flat on the glass table
as you lean forward, head slightly bowed

eyes fixed on the page.
Our cat, Smoky, creeps under my chair
to cheat the afternoon sun

that draws a shadow over half the yard.
Smoky stretches/yawns/brushes his head
against my leg.

Now you lean back in your chair,
oblivious to my stare,
just as I am oblivious to my poem

A restless breeze rankles the trees,
prompting impatiens to dance in the sunlight,
proving without a doubt
It is pleasant in the shade