I WEEP FOR FALL

by Mariane Holbrook

I weep for Fall
for in the distance
beats the faint, insolent, steady
drumbeat of death.
But Fall, hopeful and unheeding,
still lavishes her maples
with glorious crimson and gold
to flaunt before
an eager, waiting world.

With each morning chill,
Fall ignores the season’s threats
and paints ever more feverishly,
as the autumn sun
puts its celestial spotlight
on each brilliant leaf
on the vast northern ridge.

But finally Fall bows her lovely head
in grief and disbelief
and weeps silently
as raging storms
angrily rip still-stunning leaves
from their bearings
and they flutter
helplessly and wordlessly
to their certain graves.

SPRING PIROUETTES

by Mariane Holbrook

Spring steps mischievously
out of her long winter gown,
kicks it high and purposefully into the air
where it soars kite-like
above bud-swollen trees,
robust March winds
and jonquils peeking hopefully
through thickened sod.
Gaily, spring's gown
darts and plunges
knife-like through the air,
twisting and turning,
dancing and pirouetting, shouting merrily
to bleary-eyed, dormant creatures,
who yawn and stretch below,
"Wake up, wake up,
our long night is over.
We made it,
it's morning,
it's spring."



SPRING'S HARBINGER

by Mariane Holbrook

Buried under thawing crusts of white,
the yellow crocus pressed its ear tightly
to earth's floor above,
listening, waiting,
anxious for spring's reveille.
Finally, hearing nature's trumpet call,
it stood on stiffened leg-like roots
and pushed and strained and forged
against the steel sod above
with Herculean strength
until with one last heave
it broke through winter's tomb,
only to hear fretful robins
perched restlessly above
in bud-swollen branches
chirping peevishly
that they and they alone
are the true harbingers
of early, welcome spring.




SUMMER'S DOG DAYS

by Mariane Holbrook

Summer's playing lazy.
Spreading her long, pastel chintz
around her like a queen,
she leans back against the white wicker
on the shaded front porch
and swats aimlessly at flies
whose mission statement is to annoy her.

Summer is tired of men
whose clubs scar her manicured turf,
of spoiled women who listlessly
fan themselves by their pools
and complain endlessly of her unrelenting heat,
of sun-burned children who bury each other
in wet sands on her scalding shores.

Summer was welcomed by the masses in June
but in August, she's despised;
they want her gone.
They reflect audibly on the past pleasures of spring
and the vagaries of a cool, early fall,
but can't find one good word to say
about these dog days of late August.

So, closing her eyes and ridding her mind
of all the ridicule and petty complaints,
Summer counts the days
til her job is done
and she can finally discard
her parasols and beach balls
and lemonade, and gnat-covered picnics
and wait patiently for next year
when selfish people like these
once again yearn and beg for her return.



WELCOME, WINTER!

by Mariane Holbrook

Welcome, winter!
Wrap us tightly in your warm, white coverlet,
Cocoon-like, as a mother wraps her restless babe.
Tuck in our naked limbs
To prevent assault from the arctic blasts.
Provide us with that comfort zone,
Where we're inured to the blustering winds
That race through the forests of our minds,
Bending our tender saplings
And seeking to expose our near-surface roots.

Welcome, winter! In these quiet days,
Whisper winter's secrets in our attentive ears.
Let us hear the soundless, falling snow
Blanketing the earth while children sleep and dream.
Let us look full upon that white, wintry moon
Which casts its probing searchlight
On sapless trees and abandoned nests
Of birds long-since seeking friendlier terrain.

And let us rest and sleep, renewed,
Prepared for that butterfly day
When early spring will wake us,
Stretching, yawning, dormant children
Carelessly shrugging off your protective quilts
And stepping doe-like out of the forest
To drink deeply from that clear meadow stream
Without even a glance back to thank you,
The winter of our solace and content.




SUNSET AT THE BEACH

by Mariane Holbrook

Last night I faced the brilliant sky
And bowed my head and wondered why
God painted such a canopy
Of colors just for US to see.

The sky was pink, a rosy glow
With clouds which hung both high and low.
The sea reflected day's last light
With waves so high and foam so white.

I walked along the peaceful shore
And watched the seagulls glide and soar.
The earth was bathed in glorious hues
Of colors only God could choose.




 THE TRUMPET VINE

by Mariane Holbrook

From seedling it grew
by the porch of my youth,
reaching, stretching,
wrapping its spiral tendrils
around each protruding surface,
into each exposed crevice,
climbing with set-jawed purpose
to reach the highest peak
and then begin its down descent.
Back and forth it weaved
to form a dense blanket of vine,
to protect us from blinding sun
and giving summer shade for our play.

And one by one, the orange buds
burst forth in season's brilliance,
their trumpet shapes snatched
by our eager, young hands
as we blew into their narrow ends
and marched in staccato rhythm
like soldiers victorious in battle,
invigorated by the taste, the smell, the
feel of the lowly, orange-striped flower
from our favorite trumpet vine.




FOREST'S SECRETS

by Mariane Holbrook

The woman in white lifted her long fleece gown
and stepped gingerly across felled saplings
strewn beneath still barren trees,
whose bony arms and fingers reached heavenward
to bask in filtered sunlight
of the promised warmth of spring.

Leaning against a familiar sturdy oak
which offered its bulk and strength to her fragile frame,
the woman hugged herself tightly,
then slid down to the verdant blanket of moss
which cushioned her from aged, exposed roots.

Her porcelain face,
remarkably unlined by time and stress,
seemed oddly out of place here,
yet she felt at home.
She came for reflection and worship
and where better, she reasoned, than forest's depths
where God and nature communed alone.

Then she saw it.
From under a sodden leaf, a delicate purple violet
twisted and turned on its slender thread
to peek out shyly at the woman in white
who deftly pushed away nature's small canopy
to give air and sun and vigor
to this early spring harbinger
which had freed itself
from winter's endless tomb.

Carefully breaking its earthly umbilical cord,
the woman smiled and placed the violet in her palm
where she stroked it and inhaled its faint fragrance.
She rose, holding it in her tender grasp,
never hearing God whisper to the tiny flower,
"This, little one, is your raison d'etre.
For this moment and for her were you born."