All around us,
the plants whisper
in dry brittle voices,
“water us, water us.”
Sotto voce,
there is no water,
and what falls is not wet
or gentle,
but drops of chthonic fireworks,
urban, rural, coastal infernos.
The plants dig and pray to Hades,
and cooler there
than here in this air.
The Coming of the Toads 
Great poem
Lying on our lounge chairs
Watching the stars shine like
Firecrackers in the sky
Trees are our umbrellas
Quiet is all around us
Looking at each other
With a sweet smile
We share a life…firecrackers. BOOM
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Thx! Lovely Evening!
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Your poem resonates with how I feel this week, like a plant with tired legs, busy watering, watering, watering, and metaphorically waiting for a gentle rain, to bring on the flower of my plant, the fruit, the seed.
Too much chthonic fireworks steaming up the stream of sensational world news upsets, makes me want to hug the silence of the moon. A poem may come.
Love your painting, its passion shines.
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“hug moon silence”
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GOOD POEM –You can take it from me .
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A 5th from you, & thx.
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Super 4th poem. Painting yours? Mythologies of fireworks and a sea of flying fishes. Why is colour so powerful?
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Thanks, Philippa…Yes, the painting is of a beach when I was a kid, Grand Ave. Beach, a rock jetty to the north, an wooden oil pipe pier to the south (since pulled out). One day, I put in on my surfboard at Grand Ave. and paddled out and around the pier, south to El Porto, a better wave break in those days, about a mile paddle. Just to be on the water, any kind of water! Thx for continuing to read & comment, Philippa! Hope all’s well.
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