Spring Tanka (Day 462)

Slowly, seasons rise.

Cicadas dream of flying.

Snapping Tulip flags.

Violets keep their own counsel.

Consider the unfallen rain. 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Spring Tanka (Day 449)

Deep, full breath of spring.

Windows thrown open at last.

Even the house sighs.

The peach blossoms assure me:

This is not a rehearsal.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Photo: PxHere

A hint of sweetness (Day 404)

Winter is sleeping 

off an angry outburst 
now  its freshness faded  

and spring’s impending 

buds  sensing the end 

of long cold nights are 

forcing fall’s final leaves 

from their branches  

sending them flying 

toward the estuary  

striped gray and brown 

by three weeks of rain  

flooded with runoff 

from the foothills 

that glow like autumn 

in late afternoon 

when the fog breaks and

sunlight strokes last year’s 

storm-flattened grasses   

nomadic summer migrates 

northward now  fluttering  

open-ended  shallow  

but still in a deep sort of way 

and  straining toward it 

with open-mouthed desire 

we  confined to our nests  

yearn to grasp the slightest

wafer of warmth  a hint 

of sweetness in the air  

dreaming of bees humming 

over a bank of tiger lilies 

and heavy-headed peonies 

kissing the chalky gravel walk

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: John Singer Sargent, Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose (ca.1885), 
oil on canvas, photo courtesy Tate London/Wikimedia Commons

Formal reception (Day 402)

Perfect white petals.

Slight eagerness stills cupped wings.

Formal reception.

Sternly, pines balk, branches bowed.

Eloquent wind speaks her mind.

Sighing, spring retreats.

Ice reclaims still pools and ponds.

Fickle winter smiles.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: pihajutkanen/Pixabay

Feels Like May [Day 356]

Deep in February’s chill

it feels like May might never bloom,

but even in the darkest room,

light lingers longer every day,

and bitter winter cannot stay

forever, tempt it as you will.

Soon spiders, with their silver strands,

will spin new homes with certain flair,

And house-finch songs will float on air 

Above the lilting mockingbird,

And spring, more now than a mere word,

Will enchant the lifeless land.

Meanwhile, resist the icy slope—

Don’t let despair obscure bright hope.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: pixundfertig/Pixabay

What have you given (Day 348)

What have you given

aside from life, 

   yours 

      and mine

aside from all 

   of the wisdom

      you collected 

         over the years

aside from everything

   anyone could dream of 

      sharing with another

What have you given

   that was not already 

      yours

         or mine to give? 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Clean and muddy fingers (Day 343)

 

The sky fell upon them, 

sodden underbelly 

a vast, gray filet,

the sea darkening to slate,

churning waters flecked

with saline spittle.

She was in the garden,

kneeling on the grass

with her shears, gathering summer 

into a broad, petal-shaped basket,

which, in colder months,

would serve to carry kindling.

In bloom now: hydrangeas,

lush scoops of periwinkle 

and, her favorite, pink 

the exact shade 

of strawberry ice cream,

bushes sagging, heavy heads 

nodding under their burden.

He stepped through the gate

just as the clouds let go, 

releasing a torrential

exhalation of wind and water,

drenching the turbid world 

in an instant.

Three steps—he was at her side, 

reaching simultaneously for her 

and for the basket’s grip.

Their wet hands met, clean 

and muddy fingers intertwined,

As she rose, squinting at him 

through sheets of rain, smiling,

iron-gray licks of hair 

glued to her cheeks, 

each raindrop seemed to pause, 

silent, suspended.

And he realized that, to him, 

she had never looked more vibrant, 

more beautiful. Joy curled 

and swelled in his veins.

Then, with a whoop of exhilaration,

she took off running, 

toward the house.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Dripping Words (Day 260)

old-fashioned roses 

russet pathway 

wends  hard-edged 

encircling a bench 

we chose in glossy 

April’s warmth  coffee 

cups in hand  legs 

splayed casually  

sunshine fierce  naïve 

and future-bound  

doubtless   in cocoons  

humming and content  

dripping words that 

never mattered as much 

as what we meant

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

155th Anniversary (Day 242)

Fallen stories gather 

Looming suddenly through vast fog

Buried in verdant fields

Words and image of Antietam National Battlefield, (c) 2017 by Hannah Six

Indulgence No. 2 (Day 229)

Sirens, my old photos.

Luring me with silvery songs:

“Real love, true, forevermore—”

Leave me wrecked on the reef of Now,

Nightmares of happiness circling.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Now (Day 211)

Now 

is the winter

of the Summer

of Love

and the summer

of the winter

of our discontent

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: zalazaksunca

With gratitude to Mr Hemingway and Mr Shalespeare for this poem's inspiration

Lilacs, Vineyard (Day 191)

If everyone listened to lilacs, 

the way she did that 

spring, the world would be 

light as a butterfly, balanced 

on a spiraling tendril in a 

honey-tinted vineyard. 

In the distance, bells tolled 

the hours, rolling over swelling 

hills in round, velvety tones. 

One day, as she leaned 

close to hear their whispered 

secrets, plump purple cluster 

filling her palm, a page of 

wasp’s nest paper alighted on 

her fingertips. The lilacs trembled

while she read, then hung 

their heads and sighed to see her, 

careful and straight, make her way 

across the upturned field, 

toward an aproned woman 

waiting, screen-door balanced 

against one puissant hip.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Valeria Boltneva

Hibiscus Evening (Day 190)

Like the ruby hibiscus, 

hoarding sunlight, 

the evening sky furls. 

Petals laden with rain, 

it curls in on itself, 

and the birds fall silent. 

We wait for that first drop, 

the burst that follows, 

sending spray through our 

window screens and 

faithful fans, always running. 

An almost-August storm, 

borne in on a southern wind 

from down the valley, 

not mountain-split this time. 

We’ll witness the full brunt 

of its clamor and crashing 

downpours, feet up 

on the porch railing, leaning 

into each other, knowing 

only in our bones how it was 

when February paused here, 

shook herself, and filled 

our narrow street with snow.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Andrew Dunn

How Summer Wanders (Day 188)

Evening sank, then, 

when we understood 

how summer wanders. 

Then, when the world 

seemed to flutter 

like plum blossoms 

under April’s spell. 

I thought as much—

I remember, too, 

when the shards 

of frozen days 

pierced our hearts; 

you, silently dismayed. 

Soon, in a different light, 

when summer has been 

well-staged, we may amble 

along the sleeping shore, 

mid-day tide rushing in. 

This will happen. 

And we’ll feast on 

the orchards’ spoils, when 

all is sweet-dripping nectar, 

and dozy, humming bees. 

The size of that night sky, 

laced so finely with stars, 

delicate as lichen patterns 

on an ancient stone wall.

You can take me now, 

if you like, into this sinking 

evening, before it is gone. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Inspired by "Ich Denke Dein" by JW von Goethe (Untranslated version)

Photo: North of Slaidburn, Donald Judge

Haiku for Day 174

Beneath an unbruised snow

Where my toes are pink and warm

Softly, you gather me

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Steven Milner via imgcluster

Bluebell Haiku (Day 159)

Bluebells bow their heads 

in the woods’ watery light

and pray for the world

(c) 2017 by Hannah Six

Photo: Tony Higsett