Channel organic

Bent over the banister overlooking the channel at the end of the day,
watching the may happenings of the wildlife, in its last urge to accomplish its daily mission
before the monarch of the day ends its circle,
I see,
The white flakes of seagulls, fluttering above the buffet at the surface of the water,
like hungry guests at a cocktail party, elbowing their way closer to the finest appetizers,
swooping down on the regal feast.
I see,
Down below,
The emerald green waters harboring the precious bounty of smelt, crabs, and barnacles,
of algae and green, mossy substance, clung like suction pads to their heavy mineral anchors,
shadowing unfathomable realms, where all the agitation from the surface is muffled,
only disturbed by the occasional ripple of a fish.
I see,
The emerald waters turning clear, as they gently tickle the sticky, muddy shore
patterned with starshaped bird prints
Then comes the rich, organic smell of iodine, that tastes of sea urchin,
bringing about the call of the open sea, filling you in with a month vacation in an instant.

Dawn

All is silent and still, yet something has awakened you
All is dark and quiet, yet some impulse pushed you up,
to perform the morning ritual of dark, steaming coffee.
And you sip, and wait, for the slow raise of the day star
And when the dim, blue dawn, finally,
opens the curtain for the morning light,
ribbons of pink and yellow muslin adorn the pale blue robe.
Glass beads oozing on the window invite the fingertips to play
and absorb the essence of life in their million crevices.
Then you see, beyond the prism of dew drops,
the golden tips of the fir trees,
all aligned and straight up,
ready for the review of the master of the day.

Wedding party in the clouds

The bride's long trail
stretches out its thousand veils,
pushed by the purple breath of the breeze
Her bridesmaids, cotton cloudlets in apricot chemise
in the satin folds play hide and seek, and wave
Hush! Hush, maidens, behave!
Powder your cheeks with carmine,
strew our path with Jessamine,
for the poet and the painter,
for the peach astral cylinder,
that will soon cast irridescent rice grains
on the snowy service of porcelain.

December morning

Fog descended at daybreak upon the firs, draping them,
immaterial whitish veil, a mousseline scarf wraping the cone tops,
then almost instantly dissipating,
as the golden sunrays started their delicate watercolor painting,
slowly reavealing the details and contrasts of their majesties.
For a while though, the muslin scarf would come back, a vast vaporous curtain,
embracing the beloved trees, reluctant to give way,
O! Let me hold you once more!
And you could barely make out, as they melted with their morning lover,
the outlines of their majesties the firs,
like a sketch made by a hesitant hand with an unsharpened pencil,
And you could follow that hand and its movements as it went over the tree tops,
with each passage defining them a little more, by timid strokes.
Then the finger would shade off the lines again, over and over,
till it got bold enough to sharpen the edges, deepen the shadows,
so that their majesties could, at last,
make their tall presence known to their next lover, the solar disk,
A pale, powdered yellow light, yearning to stroke the fir trees
And melt the snow and dew with its warm breath.