Monday, July 15, 2013

Spider Lilies

Canoeing the Edisto

Slipped like a turtle off a log
and skimmed down the Edisto--

water like coffee,
churning just a bit muddy--

maidenflies and dragonflies
the only other traffic--

breathing air threshed
through the river reeds,
fresher than the city breeze.

I laugh aloud
at silvery fish
darting skyward
and diving as neatly
as a pocketknife collapses
upon itself.

Wood ducks scare from the reeds
at paddles' splash,
a flash in the blue sky,
heedless flight;
they squawk like giggling girls
reeling in some silly fright.

Left behind among the arum
and lavender pickerelweed,
white spider lilies gleam
like pristine snowflakes at the river's edge.

For just a while
I dally through rice canals,
aged trunks* a silent reminder
that once a lively trade
was plied here.

Again upon the river main,
flushed with exertion
against a sudden headwind,
I seek shelter beneath two towering trees--

the cypress,
draped in Spanish moss like tinsel,
branches swaying in the wind.

I wish I too could rise like the cypress,
high above the river,
and call to the herons and egrets
and owls.

Too soon I have come full circle;
the beachhead is busy, peopled.
I'm tempted to glide past,
to return to the solitary quiet of the river.

But the Edisto will stay with me,
filed with memories of other rivers,
and mountains, and meadows
which I will cull
whenever life becomes
too real, too fast, or too crowded.


Thursday, April 4, 2013

NaPoWritMo 2

NaPoWriMo #2

More Than Once

His footprints capture rainwater like a cup;
this trace too will disappear
when clouds depart.
Earth absorbs water
like a lover mending quarrels,
and grass recovers quickly,
bending back to reach the light.

Nature reclaims her own,
leaves oasis or despair.

But footprints in a desert
cup no rain,
disappear with wind
and the beholder,

and one dies more than once
in a lifetime.

Kathleen L. Smith

Tuesday, April 2, 2013

NaPoWriMo #1 Today's prompt is to write a total lie.

The Lie

Decadence is Lovely,
instinctual, rich,
runs through the veins
like a subtle itch,
sings out loud
like frogs in June,
plays like a violin out of tune.

Satin ribbons and velvet shrouds,
tattered Elegance, funereal crowds--
Oh, slay me with Decadence,
chocolates and pearls;
I was born a slave
to the material world!