When Nature speaks,
she marks her burgeoning season’s kiss
in wet dew, autumn gales,
bountiful, thickening rainbows anew,
the crisp aloof crunch of native rot
stripping her art from ancient bows
cast carelessly asunder,
preparing the encroaching plunder.

When Nature speaks,
she surmises death,
easing the craggy limbs
from brittle orchards,
condemned to sleep -
silvery carpetbagger,
lain dense and steep.
She splits the sacred holler-thrust of wind
about each whetted turn and twist,
evaporating somber daydreams
from her primordial mist.

When Nature speaks,
she devour this thorny rime of old,
plunging new sprigs flanked
in pungent crusts of earthy mold,
her renaissance a chaste delight,
twittering suckled pheasants by twilight.
Awake and rise,
my children bare,
witness my nimble-graced thoroughfare,
Rehabilitate my destiny, in this earthly pool,
fattening milkweeds, carrion jewel.

Alas, Nature is hushed with fickle pride
and robust, desire foretold,
accomplished, revised,
silent shock and buzz of fireflies
aglow, the dangling drape
in sticky humid repose,
mingles thrushes wavering
near sandy bluffs as she blows,
thunderous at once, momentarily bemused,
unsettled perhaps, good-nature confused -
vigorous dance of life, a recommence,
without sustaining providence.

 © Nick Zegarac

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