She sends her gentle laugh along
the path of new awakenings;
with eager thrusts, the seedlings break
through furrowed crusts of fertile soil.
Her sultry tease invites a breeze
to soothe the summer's throbbing heat;
she orchestrates the smooth refrain
as raindrops soften sun-baked fields.
Then spills of autumn's harvest hues
will yield to chills of winter's ice.
Each season bends to nature's call;
she blends them all with skill and grace.
The textured hues of autumn dance
from tree to tree, the flex of green
replaced by crinkled reds and goldsó
and all the shades that flow between.
The colors fall; yet even when
they scatter on the soil below,
each softly clustered leaf retains
the warmth of summer's afterglow.
As winter's chill descends, the leaves
dissolve in moist decay. Unseen,
the colors change; they'll soon return
in half a million shades of green.
As spring crochets soft-willowed lace,
our days are tuned to her mellow hum.
We palpate rows of expectant soil,
rejoice in the growth that's yet to come.
Then spring elopes with the western wind,
and summer is galloping over the sands.
Clear-splashing creeks give a cool reprieve,
massaging our callused feet and hands.
When summer flees, her vagabond song
still clings to the strands of autumn's hair.
We gather the crops, peel husks and shells,
watch leaves toe-dance on the crisp-toned air.
Soon winter spikes white-crested peaks
and reddens our noses with frosty nips.
We curl in pillowed warmth and feel
the flutter of spring in our fingertips.
Summer Evening on the Shuswap
As twilight plucks her mellow shadow chords,
the valley murmurs; fragrance trickles down
from mountain pines and clustered clouds outline
the hills with rows of golden filigree.
On prickly feet, the summer heat begins
to scurry skyward. Soon, with cooling strokes,
the night descends and sweeps the colors from
the lake. At last, with grateful sighs, we sleep.
The maples nod, as slowly, leaf
by leaf the light retracts, dissolves
the page that held the melody.
But echoes linger. Dusky shades
of harmony still line the trees
and float in molecules of air.
An old man sighs, inhales the tune
as if to bind the notes within
the fading landscape of his mind.
Sweet September, bring your cool caress
to ease our throbbing blister-scars of hell.
The crackled heat that summer poured across
the land has left a brown and crusted shell
on fields once plush and green; it sucked the pearls
of moisture from submissive mountain creeks.
Our energy's depleted; only you
can bring the gentle solace that we seek.
You sprinkle golden-pebbled hues, and strum
your melody from harvest's ample throne;
with crisply textured moves, your hands extend
the nights and spread a soothing comfort zone.
Ah, sweet September! You don't even know
how deeply you massage our grateful minds.
You simply come and go, as duty calls,
and leave your dappled legacy behind.
© Laryalee Fraser