No one thing has ever really described the Acacias in the morning in autumn.
When they flower in springtime, that’s when people see them.
Big yellow pom-poms hanging out egg yolks, fluffy but when wet a yellow painting that’s leaked over the grass.
It’s hard not to miss that. I suppose.
It’s in the autumn I think their best beautiful display is out, because no flowers, but they always seem a bit greener. Like they have all summer stores the green and now it’s overflowing into their leaves.
That green, it’s the best green. When the frosts come and slivers of ice melt on the leaves, the green comes out even more somehow. It’s the green of life. You can see them hold it. Store it.
Then as it matures it turns yellow and grows and they let it out with the yellow flowers, letting it spill across the country. Letting the life out, all over the ground and into the grass, the other plants, the animals and then me.
I know though, the summer will come then. The heat and rains will fall. The life will be stored again, in the acacias, the wattles. If it’s not, who knows if it will last all the winter.
The first frost closes in on my flesh like a falling leaf, dying in its orange light. Pattering sighs of ice melting towards a harsh stream. Rotting pumpkins sit being slowly nibbled by rabbits, getting hungry and trying to eat as much as they can for a long cold winter.
I open the frost inwardly, hearing crackling thunder of the last summer storms across the plains. Dark bark, scraped off trees defeated by another encore of the days.
Slippery streets, full of black ice, steering carts and buggies around gets dangerous for the livery. Most of them have tasted the new grapes, thinking of them on long trips as the city is emptied out of suites. Green velvet cake and fresh iced coffee greets them in the tea room, to remind them of the snakes who will not be seen in the winters haze.
Roadworks start in ernest as none may know they need to keep from doing such things when they suited can see them. Orange hatted daisies are but only paid slaves to the white ghost gums, whom keep them under close eye.
The rush, the push and fuss
Brindabellas ancient and old
Long stories they tell and have told
Crush, crush the leaves of late summer fuss
Dry mould, blue fairy Wren, oh gush!
Comfort speaks of me and my red cloak
Under those hills she sometimes yerns
When she’s angry, they burn
I can find her then, just like the Wren.
Will she be ready to join me? Travelling this mortal place?
Not till the oceans boil, and the dark wolf throws his muzzle and gapes
It’s taken all I’ve lost and all I’ve earned to find peace in those words
In the meantime, perhaps I will spend some time
As a blue fairy wren
Good deep soil takes aches away
Rooted in this place
Others, under the same crescent moon
Drink in stony places
Bitter frosting us both
Bark, long and dark
I’ll never meet them
Not now or soon or ever no matter how I swoon
My flowers bloom for them as much
Grow up, from this frosty days
Into the misty spring
My bark, bark grows ever mossy
And the frost comes and I wounder if my rock biting lovers
Are doing as well again?
Ducks. Snow. Tamed memories.
Little things I remember.
Your presence. Essence. The place in the world your had.
Pentagram, in a logical place.
Never, ever, even being.
Your words that saved me. And these little things I do.
Pain gone. That’s a comfort.
I’m trying. Trying to be worthwhile.
Desolation the empty. Insidious clouds empty snow. But they are fleeting.
Worthwhile? What is that to a tiny snowflake? To a duck on the lake waiting out the rain?
The world, the essence of it, comes from our little bits of time.
Yours, to breif.
Down by the course dirt lane
The hard presence of the pebbles
Cutting the hot sun baked grasses
It’s grasshopper, working to raise the littlest flags
His tiny little empty empire has hard times
Drought and floods, growth and death
They both come as a hash brown
Sand wasps and birds seek him out
Each with a different evil agenda
If either are successful his empire ends
Nothing left but his little flags
To be rotted out next flood
Or burned by a forever sun
Grasshopper has to raise his flags
To bring a mate
Will his family be a reality?
Like white sheets in the wind
Sometimes they hold rain
Throw down lightning and hail
Then wispy little ones like scales on a fish
Sun comes in this sky
Changes it heat from day to day
Through the clouds
They eat her rays gladly
Wind chases them like a little child chases butterflies
Ground is changed by these clouds
Hit ground with rain and plants come through the pavement
Hit the ground with hot dry sun
Hit the ground with mist
A succulent kiss on the ground from the clouds
Lights from faded
Little ants crawl
Leaves flowing into my body
I’m a pretty little thing, even in death
Rotting at my full body
A little more time
Their is a fox that loves to forage in my foyers
Birds in my eves nesting
Wasps are taking the little insects out fighting a endless tiny war against the spiders
With wight a wings a seed pod falls from a kurrajong
My foyer becomes its home and soon I watch it grow
Down the roots fall and dig
My basement has a little more Earth in it now
Then I feel like I will be gone soon
My floors start to crumble
Loosing my emptiness, download my new emotion
String cheese devotion on a jalapeño mistake
In high times, the waiting for fates to boast
Toast with traffic jam, brunch with cantaloupe sunrise
To grasp at the warmth of the inspiration light
Touches the leaf, root, brach and soil
Dancing in the flowers
To sounds that activate your minds
Bringing forth the spirit
Trueness is this thing in its current form
Also part of Devine
That is also part of all
Changed and charged to the chanting of the hazy summers
Rising steamy visions of the mirage
Eagle flying and searching
Barely a cloud above the scorched red earth
A creekbed just below his ancheint sandles
Waiting in this sunlit virtually brings you to feel hell
Then suddenly a whisper from the tree
The dance of the new rains will begin
Ground swallow me whole. Become my comfort.
Spirals form and twist me inside out. The wind comes and gently touches my form.
Ice falls and inside the moon.
My eye opens and three gardens of life form.
Clouds of stars above, striking the sky above as a blessed drum.
Punctured beats singing abound my head and captured for a moment by my senses.
In the morning my three gardens full with joy, open and sleep again each evening.
Breath takes my flesh like fire as a new garden forms. Again and again. Bare the old dead garden falls. It has had a good place on my form, I will grow others.
Drink the cold rain.
Endure the freezing ice.
Celebrate the new spring as I seek a new way. Send a message.
Send a new path.
The flowers grow, like my gardens but less whole, less lived. They last but a few settings of the life giving light.
But they are replaced by this feeling.
A new path is forming.
Not just one.
It blossoms. It rages. It aches me to our all the spring and some summer into these… Things. My body compels.
They are gone. One sunrise. I again store all the gardens joy inside. Wait for the cold.
Year and year.
Day and day.
Until I feel a prickle. A itch.
Then I am on the ground. It swallows me whole. And the former self reborn, I find myself starting back.