Four Poems: Telluride Suite, Seasons at 8750

28 Oct Four Poems: Telluride Suite, Seasons at 8750

by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

Spring:
Come Closer

Eager to play, spring bumbles in
like a dizzy bee
dazed by yellow exuberance
wondering which tree, which stem,
which blade of new grass to next visit.
Whirrrrr-whoosh hustles in the first hummingbird,
whip-stridently flirting with petal-some red,
sweet hussy of fling,
flippant rush of a thing,
yes! then tides of wings gather
to jostle for nectar,
warm air wears their buzz like a hymn.
And what could be better than today to remember
that we, too, are found in the rush,
this daily detour toward sweetness and thrill,
this unpredictable swerve of a path on which
evening enters on gray glimmer of wing so bright
                        that even the shadows are listening.

Summer:
Put Me in My Place
If nothing delights us, we get mean. —Jan Worth

I come to this alpine meadow for kisses,
how dew does what dew does
with soft morning lips.
I’d walk thirty miles for this,

this damp green communion
beneath aspen dapple
where larkspur spark violet
above white lace umbels.

This is what a body is for,
to be dwarfed by beauty,
to give itself up to a day with no wind
and a bath of dawn light.

And this is why legs learn quickly to clamber,
this is why lungs learn to love the burn.
Because petals unfurl.
Because dew disappears.

Autumn:
Of Two Winds

The stand of aspen is of two winds,
one which tugs with summer green,
the other blows with crystal chill,
the kind that makes goose bumps out of sun.

And still childlike, this first day of autumn
skips atop the weaving edge of two lines,
loses its balance several times,
but never tumbles as I often do in this golden dance,

this waltz I make up as I go;
sure the meter’s familiar,
the orchestra needs no rehearsal
and I know this tune like I know my own voice,

but I am tired of the same box step
and I’m learning what else feet might do.

Winter:
if you listen

the snow falls with
no sound

standing outside
in its silence
you find yourself
listening
to listening

but oh,
this snow knows symphony
its score is written on
every mountain, every tree,
each rooftop, each street
as each snowflake falls
a silent beat
a voiceless song
composed by sky
performed by icicle,
avalanche,
slush and ski

if you listen
you’ll hear it echoing
the snow is silent
and still
it sings

Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
Rosemerry@wordwoman.com
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