High Noon on a Summer's Day

—Poetry and Photos by 

Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA

HIGH NOON ON THE POND

It’s high noon on the pond.
I surrender to the warmth of green,
green grass. Tiny pink flowers
tickle my cheek.

A ladybug buzzes past my eyes.
Dragonflies hover over lily pads.
Jumping fish chase gnats circling
the rippled pond.

The breeze rustling through pond
reeds now joins the music of
dragonfly wings. A chorus of frogs
adds rhythm to Nature’s symphony.

Dabbling ducks dive under algae
and rest on moss-laden rocks
which line half the pond.

The sun, filtering through sparse
white clouds, spotlights the first
swim of ducklings nudging small
green turtles in their wake.

A racer snakes past me through
wet grass, announced by a
red-winged black bird.

The bare soles of my feet
bear witness to the goodness
and greatness of this day.

I whisper to a duck near the
mud-brown rocks that I’ll not
be driving into town. 

THE BUSH OF TINY ROSES

I knelt beside a bush of tiny roses
and wished my mother back into my arms.
As I knelt the silence of the breeze
said she is gone and never coming home.

Petals soft and sweet, her face to greet me;
leaves of green, the truth she taught and lived.
The stems, her sturdy-back determination;
thorns, corrective words she spoke with care.

I know my life’s reward is to have known her
and shared a love with her for all those years.
As this bush gives out its many roses,
the lessons that she taught I’ll try to live.


(Prev. pub. in The Voices Project)

ABANA, BABY DOG

I love you baby pit bull—
you hind-legged pudgy dog,
you near-eyed familiar face,
you canine yap of a doggie.

When did you stick your
kissable lips into pink Jello?
Why do you smell so
baby-fresh? You’re a dog,
for dogs’ sake!

Abana, come.
Come sit in my lap for
half-an-hour and let me
stroke your short-haired
collarless neck, as if you
might sit still for an old
lady in your toddler years.

How is it that you suck in
your belly and squirm
to escape my affections?
Allow me to hoist your
warm, plump body over
my shoulder as I rise from
the couch to fix tea.

Papoose-Baby-Dog,
I should sling you in a
sling at my breast while
I wash the dishes.

Why do you lick my
ankles with your bubble-
gum pink tongue before
bounding away in haste,
as if a preteen running
from Grandma’s kisses.

FLOATERS

I see them in quiet moments
of a well-lit room, like tiny bits
of yarn flitting about but never
flying away,

rising a little higher with every
blink of the eyelid. A twig
slowly sinking in a slow-flowing
stream

then lifting, as if over an
invisible rock. And tiny yellow
lightning strikes—no hot
summer storms brewing—
just floaters,

says the optometrist, little
floaters in my eye. 

Today’s LittleNip:

FLIES
—Carol Louise Moon

Wakamatsu sun.
Flycatcher bird lights on farm
fence wire. Why does he
search out flies here? There are tan
cows and manure there,
bedded down in yonder field. 

(Prev. pub. on Taylor Graham’s website,
March 2019 
 
______________________

—Medusa, thanking Carol Louise Moon for today’s summery poetry and photos!

—Public Domain Photo

  Don’t forget our Seed of the Week, “Quick Fixes”. Send 

your poems, photos & artwork about this (or any other) 

subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. 

(No deadline on SOWs.)

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