The season has turned, ripening fruit in the trees.
That old persimmon in the far corner of the field
is now orange with pregnancy. The Waxwings
have found it, attacking the succulent gift. Loud
cries scream through the air, seeds and ripe flesh
rain down, as the aftermath of a mad bomber’s blasphemy.
©2011, Donald Harbour
He tenderly kissed her lips,
Then moved along his way.
A vagabond of the moment
His habit was not to stay.
She quivered ever so slightly,
Responding to the passing bliss.
His seed planted deep with in her,
Given gently in a single kiss.
Other lips awaited anxiously,
Beckoning from each lady fair.
On to the next budding beauty,
The Bumblebee coursed the air.
Ungainly little insect,
How the flowers love you near.
Hanging from your stubby wings,
Impossible flight you dare.
No honey is placed in your nest,
As your smaller cousins do.
But life you spread equally,
Each spring as the world renews.
Is it possible that you alone,
Are there to show us how?
With bands of black and yellow,
And pollen upon your brow.
It is not so much the beauty
Of your skill or grace or charm.
But that you know your one lone task,
Each year to tirelessly perform.
In watching you about your work,
It comes to this human mind,
That a lesson can be learned from you,
Which would benefit all mankind.
Like you each of us must work at life,
Some earn, some steal, some pay.
What if we all put back as much,
As that for which we took away?
By sweat of hand or thoughtful deed,
We all were pleasured to give,
So that the great and little lives,
In all nature might be helped to live.
From ant to flower – sea to earth,
From one creature to mighty herd.
Mankind and beast could live,
In peaceful harmony by but a word.
As you kiss the upturned lips,
Suspend in wondrous flight above,
Your kiss an expression of the word,
It is known as Mother Nature’s, love.
© 2011, Donald Harbour
Donald Harbour Poetry 