A Chance Of Seasons Poem by Patrick Dumas

Virgin flowers –
butterfly drinks
first taste of new life.

Stargazer lilies scent
attracts bees,
invokes ardor.

Rolling waves of green grass,
pollen platoons invade air –
poetry reads well under a tree.

Sun made tea
sits on the ledge of the balcony
as the city wakes below.

Lying on a towel above burnt cement,
dead air-conditioner –
sound track of katydids.

Summer’s heat; soft pavement –
new rain,
clouds drift through streets.

Scarlet leaves smear
the highway borders
through perspiring eyes.

Harvest Moon – red,
streaked with black clouds –
delicate sight.

Work late,
light from moon –
frost by morning.

Burning wind of frost,
guidance of lunar reflective glow;
shovel warms from earned friction.

An autumn chill,
a graveyard’s swaying trees –
sunlight bathes the hearse.

Flower-covered bier,
cemented sky –
dry leaves crowd my shoes.

The face smiles its lunar grin,
making a path along the water;
the cold tide goes to sleep.

Snow covers the graveyard –
forgotten names are blanketed,
put to rest by mother nature.