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Posts Tagged ‘flowers’

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Neon-lit flowers

spill from their wooden barrel,

“Catch me if your can!”

 

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Young evergreen trees

reach out their limbs for a hug

and I shall comply.

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(c) 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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(Photos from my back yard, yesterday…)

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When we let it grow

a weed might just surprise us

with uncut beauty.

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(c) 2014, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post)

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She talks to trees

and birds,

to flowers, bees

and dragonflies.

They like to hear

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how beautiful they are

and then they whisper

their own story

and she listens

care fully.

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(c) 2013, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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.(revision of an older poem)

.Photo taken in 2010 with my old camera

 

 

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Tight-clenched bud

lets go

its knotty grip

and rigid reveries

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yields its petals

to the pull

of sunlight

through the trees

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all the while

Gaia smiles

and sends for

honeybees.

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(c) 1977, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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I’m a stranger to this land.

Pray, what are these graceful creatures

with plush yellow blossoms

waving lightly

in the early afternoon?

Such a lovely garden you have.

But why are you cutting them down?

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“They’re dandelions!”

you say with disgust.

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Puzzling,

I bid you farewell

and walk away

tripping on a tin can

in the street.

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(c) 1991, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post)

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Earth Tones

Legion Park flowers

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Summer loses its neon edge,

turns more to the gentle shades

of terracotta, celadon green,

and lavender gone to seed.

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Gaia takes a weary breath,

gathers her spent offspring

into a hushed circle.

There she tells them stories

of blithering winds 

and biting snow,

and cold, cold, cold.

You must rest, she says.

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Oh no, not yet, they beg her,

pointing to a shrinking

ray of sun.

And over on the hillock

there is one more splash of pink.

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Gaia smiles and nods her head.

There will be time enough

for them to sleep.

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©  2016  Betty Hayes Albright

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(Photo taken last week in nearby park.)

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She pretends the sun will stay

and those foreboding shadows

will not grow.

The geese in V-formation

that she saw this afternoon

weren’t really flying south.

Wildflowers still dance

between the rocks

and butterflies still light

upon the phlox

as honeybees

still swarm the mint

and bumbles take the clover.

She hums a rosy little tune

and fills her watering can.

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 © 2016  Betty Hayes Albright

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