Jovial vernal verse

Spring is the green
      is the peace
      is the breeze
      and the blossoms
      and the blues
      past the buds
      to the pinks
      on the brink
      and the warmth
      and the warbles
      and the weeds
      all the yellows
      and the bees
      and the buzzing
      living branches
      and the grasses
      and the gardens
      and the growing
      and the blowing
      of the pollens
      oh! the purples
      and the chirples
      of the birds
      and the beauty
      and the butterflies
      in the skies
      and the sun—
Springtime’s fun!

—Terri Guillemets

Springtime distractions

Spring excitement has entered my body, my mind, the yard!
Love vibes everywhere, bees buzz in every color of blossom.
Winter stillness ceased, idle grass is greening, trees are leafing,
the hummingbirds and geckos are back, renewed life abounds.
Warmth magics the earth, little sweet-song’d birds chirp and fly
in a playground of budding branches with a deep blue elixir sky.
Desert’s mild morning chill invigorates our souls, beckons vigor,
and begs sweater or bare-arm decisions — if coffee’s on, go bare!
freshly brewed, its steam through cool air hails springtime morn.
Earlier dawns light us awake with artful serenades of pink clouds;
gorgeous late-afternoon sunshine is Octoberesque and calming
but with air golden’d by warming fervor, not fall’s cooling swelter.
Evening breezes perfume of heaven, passion, newborn blooms.
We’ve been waiting all winter for open windows — yay & yippee!

—Terri Guillemets

Hoar

this winter afternoon
i stare between bare
branches of gray trees
—in the distance i see
an unreturnable past
or a dwindling future
—i can’t tell which but
the silence is sublime

—Terri Guillemets

Iridescent

the years sprint, sail, drift, fly —
days melt into sleep
decades we no longer know
by taste or smell, yes
but hard fast memories tend not to keep —
youth lives on — yet, is long gone
birds chirp each spring anew
but our hearts sing the same shades
of childhood colors we once knew

—Terri Guillemets

Afterfeather

swooping death flies off with its prey
silently but for the rustle of wings —
a feather drifts down from the empty sky
for left-behind hearts to remember by

—Terri Guillemets