The faithful pear tree drips with nubile fruit.
Around her barky leg, a squash vine twines
and zigzags like a hungry cat.
Fat submarine zucchini lurks
half-sunken in a sea of dust and leaves.
Along its leathery back,
a lusty, lawn-green mantis cha chas
toward a trove of snow white treats.
of magpies –
One two three four five –
Piano keys against a cobalt sky.
And from inside a snug adobe tucked beneath
grand poplar trees, her turquoise door and windows open wide,
Bach and Brahms.
Bright laundry hangs like prayer flags in the warm September breeze.
Santa Fe May
The month of May's a wayward time.
We may have rain. The sun may shine.
It may be cold. The wind may blow.
We may have sleet or even snow.
If it's frigid, you can bet
your goosebumps may begin to sweat.
Picnicking brings without fail
a dump of ping-pong ball-sized hail.
Annuals you planted early
may turn limp or black and curly.
Sunbathing may not seem so wrong.
Just wear a parka with your thong.
Musing on this fickle season,
though in rhyme, there's hardly reason
to heed what weathermen might say
because it may not or it may.