Two Poems by Christiana Doucette

 

Sky shuts her eyes

twists her wool scarf tight

around her neck.

She breathes in deep,

and blows—

 

a long, cool breeze dances

through the branches of the trees.

Leaves shimmer

green to gold, gold to red,

spread wide and leap,

glide down to heap in the yard.

 

One last flash of life before winter sleep.

Grass shakes off dewy pearls 

and shimmies into diamond shards.

The jealous stars stare as

lace traces up the window pane,

outlines white the weather vane.

 

The stain of fallen berries

purples the garden path

where it wraps 'round the glimmering pond.

Beyond, the evening geese

whirling world to world,

wheel to earth for rest,

nest into the curling cattails,

test the pond,

tapping black bills on thin glass sheets.

 

The gilded world greys, stills,

spills blue shadows from the bushes.

pushing away day.

Twilight deepens to dusk.

Dusk creeps to dark.

And with light nearly gone,

 

Sky dreams on.

First published on my blog for the Fall Frenzy poetry contest in which it won recognition

Secret Gardens

I fell in love with secret gardens.

Not the forgotten rose trellises of Mary, Dicken and Colin,

but green moss fields between gnarled tree roots;

acorn basins of dew; brown bark benches;

and violet patches-irises for wee folk.

 

Muddy fingered I turned over rocks to catch glimpses

of half hidden shady glades filled with gravel chips,

grey-browed lichen and the odd roly-poly

revelling in the earthy aroma of fresh turned soil.

 

Under the lilac bushes

beside the sickly sweet honeysuckle

where the green grass wove itself in thatched pavilions

I saw mushroom ottomans--

bespoke opulence of backyard toads.

 

I feasted my eyes on the hanging gardens of the sugar maple;

each leaf replete with raindrop rivers flooding tree basins.

I joined the carpenter ant cragsmen

in the hushed wonder of vertical view;

catching whispers from the wind of the paradise above.

 

I eavesdropped on the pinecone palaces of shag carpeted spruce

As they built their amber stalactites drip by gummy drip.

And as I smiled, smelled and fumbled about in the wilderness without,

it followed that I learned to cultivate the wilderness within.

Christiana Doucette spends mornings in her garden weeding because just like poetry, flowers grow best with space to breathe. She has judged poetry for San Diego Writer’s Festival for the past three years. Her poetry has appeared in anthologies, been set to music by opera composers, and performed on NPR.