“Aujargues in Mid-Summer,” “Summer Evening Walk After Rain,” and “Eros & Philia: A Botany of Love”

three-legged cat crouches in the alley

one-eyed horse at pasture

white sun breathes on white stone

green figs cling

to the youth of their branches

resist their gradual purpling

soles of shoes

trample yellow plums underfoot

smear of jam on cobblestones

pulsing cicada heartbeat

sick with love, trembling bees

penetrate yawning mouths of orange-red trumpet vine

grapevines huddle in dense rows

at the village’s borders

beside twisted shoulders of olive trees

on the edge of silence, five white horses

docile and soft muzzled

wait in a diagonal line for their summer evening hay

their tearless black globes

long eyelashed, mute

expectant as the moment before speech

tight villages of stone spiral into themselves

crawl up the hills like grey snails

earth swallows them back with a ravenous greenery

soot-soaked plaster peels off walls

laundry hangs stiffly on roped lines

a wiry woman eats cigarettes, leaning over her balcony

finches take refuge in flowering laurel

scatter magenta petals with their dun-feathered wings

mourning doves chant beneath motorcycle engine growls

the remnants of wine linger

as amber syrup at the base of a stemmed glass

near the sink at sunrise

apricots ripen in a ceramic bowl

sunlight sieves

through the cracks of shutters

not yet reaching closed eyes

naked feet evade each other beneath thin sheets

a fan blows across the un-awakened, tiled room

a mother finds solitude at dawn

the relief of birdsong through a screenless window

tisane that tastes of silent sunrise

a café table in a village courtyard

cigarette ash and lipstick-stained coffee cups

sprinkled with spare change

tanned elderly men, shriveled-faced, huddle and argue

throw pétanque balls in dusty town squares

near abandoned lavoirs

bright graffiti mars an abandoned stone shack

of a forgotten shepherd, long dead,

in a field yellowed with wildflowers

neolithic crags of limestone protrude

from ancient, underground caves

traces of romans scattered among sun-ripened meadows

children sprint and screech, tag each other, run in circles

around marble memorials with their etched names, their solemn lists

of sons and brothers relinquished to wars

sharp-arced swallows swoop and glide

startled at the echoed clangs of Sunday morning bells

calling a few lonely widows to their empty stone wombs

tall walls of poplar and cedar

whipped by wind along roadsides

at the Rhone’s edge

density of insects purr and rattle

while the ferocity of sunlight grinds

the orange off concave rooftiles

dry, blue hills in the distance

slim-leaved, silver groveling olive trees, like hunched sentries

mark the rows of low-bowing vineyards, heavy with grape

after morning tears, a boy with scabbed knees

chases cats among narrow village lanes

throws sticks at geckos hiding in the wall’s crevices

a family of three

trudges up a village path

in noon’s vibrating white heat

the obligation of four hands clasped in two knots

gnarled, linked like knobs of tree trunks

scalps sweating beneath hats, at napes of necks

shoes kick up red dust, shoulders droop

under the relentless, unblinking stare

of the sun

Strawberry half-moon yawns

Newborn stars unhinge the anchored sky

A violet burgeoning of raincloud

Gasp of billowed peaks

Overhead, a whale breaches

A cerulean dragon emerges from its lair

Crape myrtle sheds purple tears

August flavored by heavy grape

Loneliness of sparrows, damp feathers collect in puddles

Pavement licked wet

Pasture at dusk, fireflies blink

at the mute, moist sheep

Guttural scrape of frogs

A black pond inhales remaining daylight

Yellow lamps illuminate windows

Houses' crusted eyelids flutter open

Each corner clings to memory:

a child perched on my lap under gnarled oak

A family blanket laid on the July-trodden grass, fireworks

The bench where an electric kiss still lingers

Earth’s green, damp hair

breathes its night of ecstasy

In my backyard, each spring births a rainbow.
Crocus’s yellow fingers scratch through snow.
Indigo tongues of iris lick the eye.

The driveway, lined by lilac’s unbrushed hair,
smells of dawn. Azalea’s pink madness
cannot be ignored on our path to the

mailbox, nor rose of sharon’s chortling mouth
above the wood pile. Magnolia’s pale
goblet entices the nose with yearning

to bury itself in her satin sleeves.
Who can refuse a lanky sunflower’s
hot open face, all jazz and August?

In the kitchen, orchid’s sybaritic
slender magenta demands its homage
before we reach the morning coffee pot.

In the library, the imperial
lily’s intoxicating breath permeates

wood and cloth. Its white musk seeps through closed doors.

How abrupt, how potent this new beauty:
we don’t notice the swelling of the bud
until green surrenders itself to color.

Yet, at the moment scissors slice the stem
and our fingers arrange blossoms in glass,
they begin to droop, to wither, to fade.

Bright flares that burned sharp and fast, already
on the quick path to death. Even in my
garden, they prove themselves shallow-rooted

as last night’s rain leaves them trampled in dew,
weeping scattered petals.

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Behind our garden, two twisted oaks grow
together, towering over coral
camellias in February bloom 

or wildflowers whose eyes blink open all
at once in June. Their scarred trunks have merged, close
to the root, grinding against each other

across a century’s seasons. Now they
almost sprout as one tree, where trunks meet soil.
Limbs askew, bark calloused from December’s

claws and hurricane’s temper, their crooked
fingers intertwine, slant toward the sunlit
side of the ridge, pointing to the creek where

the mute doe stoop to drink and the egret
poses in a flash of pearl.
Their green lichened skin bleeds alive in rain

leaflets timid, last to emerge in soft
adolescent drizzle of April’s first
melancholy, after all the others

have already roused – eager buds of ash
and hickory. For generations, their
branched elbows have cradled nests of robins

hollowed abrasions sheltered squirms of squirrels.
Their roots drill deep, knit together the hill,
slick with mud and November dross. Their grip,

underground, holds together snarled foliage
from slipping down the steep ravine into
the hungry creek. The deer, in moonlight, sleep

comforted in grass beds, beneath their broad
and gnarled arms.