The day is warm,
a morning cover of cloud has dissipated by midday
revealing heavens so blue, it’s as though you are
staring straight into the face of god. Perhaps so.
Sunshine spills and splashes unto the landscape
dousing the meadow in a drunken bliss.
But it is the wildflowers that catch the eye
with their golden-orbed, white-petaline radiance,
a grassy universe of perennial sun stars.
In the distance, a mountainous wind gust curls
around the granite peaks, the breath of a giant
that rustles teetering treetops, and like a deep-sea swell
it rolls over the vale with a crescent W-H-O-O-S-H
until it swallows me utterly in one immense gulp.
like glassy black pearls,
I know now what I
should have done last night– that and tuck under
her paws, like in sleep
because by morning
the stiffness is making it
for her to neatly fit
into the hole we dug,
and now earth
has fallen into her wide eyes.
But it is too late for that now,
so we cut flowers
and fill her grave
with the loose cool dirt,
an honor to all life,
by serving in death.
By Jason Weaver, 2013
Author’s note: Pearla, a friend’s dog, fell into a heavy sickness that fortunately did not last long and she passed on Sunday night. I was with her in her final moments and helped to bury her the next moring. I feel it is so important for us to honor life by serving in sickness and death. Whether animal or person, all living beings share the same ultimate experience, cessation of life. Rest peacefully, Pearla.
In the ambience of this estival morn
I’d ambled, with eager pleasure,
to a sunlit patch of unshorn greens
cast amid the forested hill
and dewy still from the night just passed,
where capim grass grew as tall as lemon trees
and vines of a floriferous kind had wound themselves
down the length of an overgrown garden path.
Illuminate leafs rolled off the tall Cassia above
falling to the matted floor
like bits of confetti gold.
Though not sultry, the air, warm and humid,
was imbued with a heady bouquet as sweet as honeysuckle,
the ambrosial scent of abundant wild white lilies.
An eurhythmic cadence of mating cicada
undulated afore me and through me
as birds sang gaily of daybreak and
from across the ebulient valley a horseman
who had set his herd to pasture on the mountainside
called in zeal ++++++++ “Hyuh! Hyuh! Hyuh!”
I leaned into a bramble of esculent berries
where I plucked the ripest-reds,
each one pressed to my palette with my tongue and held
as though I were making memory–
–a confluence of touch and taste
of sight and sound
that would pass as quickly
as it had come.
By Jason Weaver
Author’s Note: Lírios Brancos e Capim (White Lilies and Grass) –2013 by Jason Weaver, an orignal painting, acrylic on canvas
Also: This photo-poetry post has been submitted to dVerse Poet’s Pub, a great place to share poetry! Check it out!