over the Park
a Magritte sky
gather in an old oak
to discuss this,
fly off at the approach
of a black lab
in imagined freedom.
We love the flower, more so
if it adopts the brighter shades
of nature’s palette, and even
tolerate the fern, but only if
it truly honors the greens
it is supposed to bear and unfurl.
We save our spite for the fungus
which reaches up to us
with surprising haste, nothing
this day, fully formed tomorrow
as if to suggest a resurrection
from something dark and dank
hidden below the surface.
Still, we turn our back on it,
wish it gone, find it ugly
and never pause to wonder how it
views us in the early light of morning.
The hawks have been circling
more frequently of late,
but in the early autumn laziness
of merely riding the breezes
that seem to pick up in the mornings,
before the midday sun bids them
be calm so it can make its transit.
By afternoon, they tend to roost
high up in the giant pines, peering
down as the flow of people flows
along the paths seeking to grasp
the fading warmth and last blooms
for a few moments longer, and
as evening approaches the hawks
take flight again, knowing the moon
can move the tides, but is powerless
to change the winds which blow
when and where their sky mother chooses.
She’s a real bitch, that one,
and there is no telling her anything,
at least anything she doesn’t want to hear.
And to make matters worse still,
she can be so damn alluring, and you know
when she turns it on you are hopeless
to do anything other than fall
hard and fast under her spell.
We’ve done this before, too many
times to really count, and she will
sooner or later, but never when expected,
turn on you and leave you wondering
why you fell into her trap yet again.
But she’s Mother Nature, after all,
so what choice did you really have.
As night settles in
the clouds grow uncertain
of their intentions.
It is hard to realize
that a boundary
is silently crossed
and summer has
retreated into the past,
leaving a new season
in its wake, harder
to know that tomorrow
we will awaken into
an autumn that at first
seems no different
then her mother, only
the promise of fall-
ing leaves soon painting
her in her true colors.
He is certain that
the sky is always blue
and when it seems
cloudy it is just that
Magritte has risen
from his grave and
brush in hand,
painted the sky and clouds.
She scoffs at the idea,
knowing full well
the clouds are merely
rice paper cutouts
floating on a gentle breeze.
They promised rain yesterday.
It did not rain yesterday.
The sky grew dark, the clouds
gathered, convening, no doubt,
to consider rain but clearly
they did not reach a consensus.
They say it will rain today,
but we have no reason at all
to believe them, for they are
wispy and darting around
under the sun’s watchful glare.
But the clouds snicker,
for they know fealty to no star
and are merely waiting
for the right moment, when we
venture out assuming that
there will be no rain today.