Red Delicious (Day 79)

Source: US Dept of Agriculture*

Red delicious, the color 

of fall, of the garnet ring 

I used to wear, dreaming 

myself into fathomless 

depths, where flashes 

of amber mingled with 

the sweetness 

of late summer 

cherries—the colors, 

I thought, of a midnight sky, 

viewed through a glass 

of Gamay. Or, perhaps, a Merlot...

No matter. 

I treasure the shawl, knit 

with my own grateful hands 

in a pattern of diamond lace. 

But the ring? One day 

a jeweler shattered the stone 

and replaced it with one 

dark as sin, and opaque 

as the heart of the long-ago man 

who presented it to me. 

So I pawned it. 

Now, by the fire, in my red 

woolen shawl, I consider 

the ring and the man

and I think:

Good riddance to all bad apples.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

*	Artist: Mary Daisy Arnold, ca. 1873-1955. In collection of USDA.

This Moment (Day 68)

 

This moment 

was born 

strong, capable, 

    crisp as silk 

    or commitment, 

calling to mind

   a wide array 

   of delicate growth.

Heir to 

    every story 

    ever lived, 

to the ocean 

    of unfathomable time

    leading up to 

this instant—

senescent, now, fragile.

Please,

     hold it gently, 

          and with care.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image:

Hotarugari, Firefly Catching, by Mizuno Toshikata. 

Ukiyoe, Japanese woodblock print, 1891. 

Bird No. 1 (Day 48)

 

A signal 

        (like an invitation, or a warning)

or gesture 

        (of goodwill...or good Faith?)

involving the human 

        (because we all are)

hand's extended 

        (in generosity...or supplication?)

so-called middle 

        (we don't meet here as often as we used to)

finger—the others  

        (there is no Other)

are retracted,

        (pulled back, turned inward)

except the thumb, 

        (exceptions are the new rule)

which typically remains 

        (how do we decide?)

upright.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Firecrest, by Martin Vavřík

Elms, Exalted (Day 40)

 Photo: WikiMedia

Elms, Exalted

Pedaling, sweating,

coasting, fingers 

merely resting 

on handlebars, 

she turns right, 

lured by birdsong 

Tilting, gazing upward 

into a vaulted nave 

of elms, exalted by the

   ease of flight, 

   reserved, rambling homes, 

   sparks of sun glancing 

        off fluttering leaves, 

And, not least, by 

plunging into 

a pool of dreams

she knows only as 

freedom and 

  surrender.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six