Flowers need a promise

Diana Fritillary butterfly on Mike Harbour’s Zennias.

As flickering bits of confetti,
torn paper cast they float
attaching to flowers and trees.

Flashes of sparkling color,
iridescent hues of the rainbow
trace these aerial spindly creatures.

The trees are telling nature
to get ready for the season’s child
a capricious snowy headed cherub.

Yet here are the last hangers-on,
pausing to pose for a picture
then gliding away to another petal.

Do they smell the air as I,
a mosaic breath of warmth, chill,
blended with damp dead leaves, and musk.

Rest arises from the earth
pushing furry babes to deep burrows,
proclaiming sleep will save you.

Gray has muted the sun’s light,
scudding clouds have dismissed it
they forage to drop their burden.

I wonder why the butterflies linger
defying the moment to drink the last nectar,
fall is waiting with its frosty wings.

Maybe it is because only their kiss
can comfort summer’s passing flowers
to promise resurrection in the spring.

©2012, Donald Harbour


A poem in the form of a Japanese Tanka.

Grey marbled clouds
rolling across the sky,
on the earth below
life awaits a moist kiss
from nature’s pursed lips.

©2012, Donald Harbour


In the west skies have darkened,
roiling morning clouds advance.
The sun lies hidden in the east,
a grey cloak over its face.
Pregnant mares thunder overhead,
their hooves beating a drum roll.
There is a scent on the wind,
Mother Nature’s elemental perfume.
Earthy, calming, full of promise,
Gaea toils to bring forth life,
her sweet sweat seminal.
All existence pauses in anticipation,
Obedience to the wonder of creation.

©2012, Donald Harbour

Plowing the clouds

in a time when I was young,
once I plowed the skies,
two mighty star steeds,
pulled my ephemeral blade,
gouging the cirrus and cumulus,
the furrow from dawn to night,
the rich smell of their scent
an aphrodisiac of moisture,
an open cleft in the sparkling sky,
inviting, castigating my youth,
there were so many of them,
had I known that those clouds
would not last, would disappear,
I would have lingered in their vapors,
savoring  them with my heart,
thus remembering their delicate passing.

©2012, Donald Harbour

The storm is watching over me

A thunder storm is coming.
A gentle breeze caresses
the window curtains.
A breeze scented with life
of rain,
of things green.
The voice of the storm
is a Wagner aria,
a clash of steel,
a Teutonic giant,
demanding the land.
When its lightning flashes,
you can see the monsters,
in the night sky.
Towering mountains of clouds,
held aloft
by branches,
of pulsing light.
I feel the power in the storm,
it soothes me
with its force,
its guardianship.
I sleep peacefully
the storm is watching over me.

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour