Seasons

I like the change of seasons,
search for the first leaf bud,
the first blossom, fire tree,
snow fall.

I watch for the ground to cool,
the cracks to close
to silence the crickets. I count them
the seasons, each as they pass
and wonder, does my body shed
seasons like the land?

Do I wear rain on my lips
flowers as eyes, fall in my hair?

Is my hearing cold, deathly silent
as it is in snow with only the wind
ringing the ears and numbing the nose.

They wait for roses
and I wait for the dawn of storms
that precedes the turn of seasons.

Rainy Night

Tonight the rain spatters
onto the tin shed roof
tree branches scratch
its side - a tormented protest
cries the end of Summer. It

is still hot. The cat
stretches and circles his nest,
the chaise stands steady
under his prodding paws.
Night gives voice to crickets,

wings to leaf that Autumn shoves
as if one brief flight
will render them free
before they are caught by the pull
of unsettled puddles.

New Zealand, a Country

of Spring waterfalls tumbling to rocks,
rivers swift and creeks babbling
tales of Summer's end, curling
across the rolling green countryside,

of mountains lording over the land
of crystal blue waters cradling
the islands and people
brown, black, white, round-eyed
or slanted, heads covered,
or not.

Of a country bathed
in the light of the Lord.