Weeds and Wishes

"Disgusting!" he thought

as he stood at the edge of a vacant lot

littered with garbage 

and carpeted in dandelion clocks.

Food wrappers,

empty bottles,

an abandoned shopping cart,

and - in the far corner, under a tree -

a makeshift camp,

empty now, but someone's home.

He saw only the dandelion heads.

"Damn weeds!," he exclaimed.

"There must be a thousand of them there!

Just think what they'll do to our lawn!"

"No, Daddy!" a small voice replied,

"There must be a thousand wishes there.

I hope they all come true"

In Springtime

In springtime

every hedgerow is alive with birdsong;

every heart,

the beating wings of hope.

A Small Life

I lead a small life,

unremarkable,

mundane
some would say,

and yet,

within it's confines,

each and every day,
a thousand miracles
come my way.

The Month of Roses

June
is the month of roses here,

when all the landscape 
gives way

to romance.

In the last weeks of May

every wild roadside,

every field's fence line

is tangled 
with wild rose

and honeysuckle,

their scent sweetening the air

and whispering

"June is coming!"

June's first days 
bring a blooming.

Every garden,

whether ordered and perfect

or tangled and cottage-y

boasts at least

a rose 
or two.

From bowered climbers

to tiny floribundas
clustered sweetly together,

From perfect 
tea roses

to blousy, 
perfume-y, 
old-fashioned darlings,

From sleek elegance

to girly ruffles,

they reach,

with sweet scents

and thorny fingers

and draw us in

with reminders 

of summer,

of romance,

of beauty,

of love.

Daisies by the Roadside

When I was a child,

not so ruled by clocks and calendars, 

the first white daisies on the roadside

said summertime to me.

I picked those daisies by the armful.

Mom smiled and thanked me for the gift

despite the bugs who came along for the ride.

I put them in jars of coloured water,

and watched, fascinated,

as they drank deeply and changed before my eyes.

Daisy chains sufficient to circle the globe

were woven beneath cloud-drift, sunlit skies.

There were other things too:

Wild roses twined with honeysuckle

grazed by does through wire fences,

wobbly-legged fawns with dappled white coats

hidden in the shade nearby,

Birds singing in the dark an hour before sunrise,

and bats taking wing in evening skies,

Mild morning air

making bare-legged bike rides

for the first time not a punishment,

But,

then and still,

white daisies by the roadside
say summertime to me.

Quiet Pleasures

Spring often wakes late here
- sleeping through her alarm clock -

then jumps out of bed

and,

drawing her brightly coloured shawl around her,

runs out the door

strewing blossoms all around

in glorious disarray.

So enchanted are we

by her blousy blossoms,

her bright tulips,

her sweet pansies,

and forget-me-nots,

that we sometimes overlook

the quiet aspects of her charm

but,

while she is rushing by,

tender ferns are unfurling

in the darkling wood.

Tiny creatures are exploring.

Shy fawn lilies 

are hiding

under maple trees

who are, 
in their turn, 
hiding blooms

among the sweet tender-green
 of new leaves.

Even the streams are blessed

with the transient jewelry

of blossom confetti,

strewn upon their waters.

Hush.
They are waiting.

White on White

Snow falls but rarely here,

and when it does,

strangers

stop each other on the street

to lament its inconvenience.

But I am grateful 

for the beauty

of white on white,

for still church yards,

undisturbed

by passers-by,

for country views

as quiet

as a whisper,

for wild rose hips

wearing winter caps,

for strong arbutus trees

raising rust-hued branches

toward the snow-greyed skies,

 and for yellow-ochre willow twigs

shouting defiantly

that Spring is on the way.

So brief,

these still, white moments,

so transient,

so sweet.
I am grateful
for each and every one.