Green Seasons

I. Spring

They explored
the green season,
out along the far pasture,
every bower of orchard
and wood, all the many
creeks and brooks
in the late fine part
of March when the green
world was just unfurling
leaf and blossom.

One with eyes
blue as an endless
spring sky, intensely
pastel. In aspect, grave
even fretful but prayerfully
hopeful. The other
liquid spring green
as dew soaked grass,
glittering emerald
like a promise
of laughter under cool
forest boughs.

They delighted in trees
and wild honeysuckle,
napping in the orchards
on pale apple blossoms,
racing dragonflies
or any winged creature,
pursuing the exotic
salamander, investigating
what lurks below
fallen limbs and stone.

They chased
their own shadows
that spring under tender
sun, disturbed reflections
in sudden April
puddles.

After the rain,
they rescued wayward
turtles or errant toad
from the sticky tar
of rural roads. With wild
abandon and childish faith
rolled down soggy hillsides
covered in red clover and sweet
green grass just for giddy pleasure
then dried in grandma’s good
quilt, four corners tied
on a tree limb to make
a cozy hammock swinging
under setting sun.

II. Summer

When summer pressed
into the cool green shade
of sagging orchard boughs,
air heavy with too ripe
apples left to seed, they crept
under arbor vines on the hill
where grandma strung shiny
pie plates to baffle crows, flummox
jays, bewildering trespassers generally
with eerie metallic scrapings and tin
whirs on summer breeze.

A castle of woven grape leaves
beneath tall white pines,
a haven from the heat, the gnats,
and other biting things
where the green silently parted
to admit soft breezes but kept
them hidden from sun and siblings.

Just the one year
and just the one left behind–
the arbor walls withered
with the frost, broad leaves
that had kept them safe
turned golden then to dross,
finally floating away on autumn
storms. Just the one waiting
for green seasons and emerald
eyes still February had already
taken green away
for always to blissful
bluer skies.