We've Got Cows - The Sunday Muse

 

Come, sweet Hathor
my space-cow
bring your children
back from playing leapfrog
with the moon.
 
The glass on the counter
is half full
and the sweet clover
is blossoming in the field
and soft, September breeze
spills milkweed seed everywhere.
They fly with exuberance,
though they will die,
preparing for next year’s
butterflies.
 
Come with me, Hathor,
from the Aaru
back into to time,
back into this world
of grass and dirt and sun
 
back to this afternoon
of warm sunshine
and soft grasses
of falcons circling high above
and crows preening
in a nearby oak
talking amongst themselves.
 
Of course, it won’t last forever
my dear,
that’s what makes it
perfect.

 

The image is provided by The Sunday Muse.  

 

Aaru – in ancient Egyptian mythology the Field of Reeds, is the heavenly paradise

Hathor - ancient Egyptian goddess depicted as a cow, or a woman with the head of a cow, considered the primeval goddess from whom all others were derived. 

Wordless Wednesday - Maurice and Otis

 

Autumn Fruits

 

Over at dVerse Poets' Pub Laura has asked us, keeping September in mind, to write a nine-line verse, taking one of several lines from different poets so that each consecutive word becomes the start of the next line of the poem. I chose the following:

Those/ pale /flowers /might /still /have/ time/ to /fruit  from Karina Borowicz’s ‘September Tomatoes’ 

 

Those autumn evenings grow crisp at the edges.

Pale moonlight spills on fields as that first star

flowers in the darkening sky.

Might this inexorable transition towards winter

still surprise us, still catch in our throats?

Have we lost our awe of beauty, death,

time slipping into past?

Today we should enjoy the final

fruit, sweetened by September’s breeze.

The First of September

So what do I write on this first day

of this new month, September, this

almost autumn?

Do I write about how the garden

is nearly exhausted?

Do I write about how the leaves

are already beginning to turn?

Do I write about my dad, born in this month,

whose favorite color was red,

whose favorite flower was the American Beauty Rose,

whose favorite season was autumn?

Do I write about his strong, freckled hands,

or his neat-nick habits

or his quick mind

or his laugh that filled rooms

or his clever sense of humor?                  

Or do I write about the cooler nights

and the shorter days

and how death is coming for us all?

This is linked to dVerse Poets' Pub for their open link night.