Robin in Windfall

                                       
Robin among Windfall

At the top of the hill
I catch my breath,
to face the harsh wind
and look up at the sky,
a turmoil of clouds
and volatile blue.
 
To my right
a robin pauses,
his orange breast
citrus sharp,
among the yellowing apples
of last year’s fall.
Only birds harvest this crop.

But my Grandmother
 gathered all;
apples, cherries, eggs and me.
She kept us from spoiling,
showed me how
to prepare for the cold.
I remember
her pantry,
jam jars glowing
 crimson and orange
in  dusty shafts
of afternoon light.

I walk on with my memories,
 then pause
near a plum tree,
For moments I stare
at buds trembling
at the edge of beauty.
See? There!
Two poufs of pink,
cotton candy explosions
on rough mossy twigs.

Delight bursts in the air,
 and falls at our feet.
To blight
with neglect
is to wither,
to provide nothing
for snow.

A housewife to memories,
 I harvest the wind
in a drawing,
store poems
on my desktop,
preserve short-tempered March
in cloudy words
and staccatos of paint.

Jennifer M. Carrasco

Comments

[Cre8Tiva]

love this...i am doing a whole lot of things with twigs lately...beautiful work my friend..i am celebrating my 3rd blogacersary this week with a BiG GiVeAwAy...please come join in and spread the word...blessings, rebecca