Ars Poetica: Sonnet for November

THE WOMEN gather under the trees.

They bring gifts, food, and chairs.

They are gypsies and queens, oracles, saints,

Jezebels and jesters, healers, sages, and warriors.

And when the circle is complete, the magic begins.

Shyly, with dainty movements, they take turns,

shifting aside their robes to expose

missing limbs and gaping wounds.

The others gather close and peer, heads cocked,

eyes straining, and they chant,

"That is lovely, that is good,"

and the wounds stop weeping,

and they melt into scars,

silvery and light and beautiful.

Then the women lean back and laugh,

and they stretch, sensual and fierce,

like cats in the sun.

Saturday, November 19, 2011

Shovels on high

Rakes face the wall

Seeds in their files

Tulips asleep in their beds.

Beds heaped with mulch

Gloves packed away

Hoses wrapped and stowed

Tulips asleep in their beds.

Trees wrapped up tight

Planters stowed away

Sno-Melt at the ready

Tulips asleep in their beds.

The shed locked up tight

Dreams of peat pots

Gone frm my head

Tulips asleep in their beds.

--Scheherazade