So I didn’t quite complete the NaPoWriMo challenge, but I did write something in those last four days of April that I am quite proud of.
Frayed twangs whisper strains timid sweet and low,
Did you know?
Color’s all in your head,
Which means nineteen forty-two
is truly where we belong.
Murmurs hum through blown glass breezes,
Leave us behind to yearn for more.
This happens when the ice goes bad,
Frosty burning cold stabs the delicate olfactory;
A blizzard in my basement caused the Winter freeze,
For once, could Spring have sprung,
Instead of limping about this way and that?
Honestly, if only the violins would attune themselves,
Then perhaps this ado about nothing would amount
to something more courageous than
A cowering fuzz ball of a bunny
Or a peeping yellow chick.
The blossoms are too timid,
The morning dew too sweet,
The fresh green grasses bow too low
To the glory of the sun.
Stand up and spring for joy, for life, for renewal,
And for what?
By the fifth day we’re tired
Of the heat up heaving us
From our cozy winter nests.
oh Summer, leave us be
Let us doze.
Oh but no, the chords have split and broke
Like a kitten who found the tablet,
There will be no rest for irresponsible fools.
Swimming in sweat-soaked sheets,
I peel them away, and strip.
Pull on the fan, pull up my hair.
Oh sweet, wet water cools
My throat, desert parched.
Lie back and sigh,
Wipe salt from my eye,
Where’s my bathing suit,
It’s time for the pool.
The rustle precedes
Warm rains and golden harvest,
When the fallen clog up the filters,
Fires of the earth rise to consume
green and growing things of the ground.
Small creatures flee to hidden hidey holes,
Rushing winds wail and whine,
Through strings do they twine.
Beware the Fall,
Earth’s little death;
She recedes to 1942