By Rose Mary Boehm
I love the clamor of young voices shrieking
as they play in and out of the turquoise square
which shimmers where the sun excites it.
There is sensuality in sand running through
my toes, my foot a timer for the speed
with which the sun moves.
The smell of sun-tan lotion wafting
towards my nostrils from over there
where two hefty women work on
each others’ backs, their sun hats
wide, black and dramatic.
But how can I explain the silence of a snow-filled
morning, the light-filled, moon-lit
night when a white blanket settles softly,
the wonder at six red dots on the stick-fingered
tree over there, cardinals, skitty, now there are five.
On the white meadow tiny diamonds reflect the sudden
sun, only one zig-zag spoor crossing the expanse.
The thermometer stopped at ‘freezing’ for today
and the weatherwoman promises more snow.
Copyright 2019 Boehm