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                                                                                                Kathy Paupore

   

From Hibernation

The black bear awakens
moves from her cave
limbs heavy, mind numb.
She searches the mountainside

finds a hive, devours
the honey of words.
Bees buzz inside her skull,
agitate her senses.

She growls, bees tremble
from her mouth
a black line of verse
across a page of blue sky.

   

The Curious Naturalist

On her walk along the creek’s edge
yellow violets, blue-eyed grass.
What is this bloom? Must be out
of place, she can’t identify it,

has been through all her books,
it does not exist. Tiny bells grace
arching green stems, are touched
by wind but do not ring. Perhaps

its seed was carried here on
the hummingbird’s wing. In shade,
yellow petals alight inverted mauve
cups; columbine, twinflower. Out

of the ordinary, this wild flower
has caught her surprise. She may
never know what it is, but will
remember what she could not name.

   

July Forecasts

     

Partly Cloudy

Clouds hang on sharp edges
along the skyline,
night’s velvet dims
the vibrance of daisies and dandelions.

Next field over, on the other side
of the fence, stars extinguish sunset,
sprinkle the blackness.

     

Warm, Light Rain

Sun burns high in the sky,
skirts no shadow on the ground,
warm spice of lupine and poplar
dances in and out with the breeze.

Fickle wind gusts, eddies, gusts again.
Flat gray clouds billow east,
fold the sky with rain,
quiet the sun.

     

Hot and Dry

On the hill that lines the creek,
a handful of blueberries,
small and tart. Only a tease
of rain for weeks.

The sun comes lower, lights
the filaments of spider industry.
I contemplate drought,
incantations to incite stray clouds.

     

Hazy Skies

Today the yard is hardpan
and sheets of dust rip
upward with each scrawl.
A thin breeze rattles paper
clouds, lightning rends
the distant haze. Rain
would tear a page from this heat.

     

Chance Of Thundershowers

Fat clouds roll west
gather like cotton bolls,
streaks of white
crack amethyst sky,

the gray rumble
only a train passing
miles away.

     

Popcorn Showers

Under the gray lid of sky
fast rain pings off dry concrete,
pongs off hard ground
and steams into the gutter.

Dust vapors rise and swirl,
your mouth waters
with hunger
for melted butter.

     

Sixty Percent Chance Of Rain

Down by the creek, clouds of purple
joe-pye weed and summersweet
sway above green grasses.

Mud edge of the creek bed holds
the hoof prints of white-tailed deer
that stilled for a brief drink, moved on.

Blue sky is filled with ponderous gray
clouds, but no rain will fall.

     

Thunder Showers

All through the night,
rain. Wind soughs through
trees, clouds grumble,
light splits the dark.

In the morning
roads are troubled
with puddles that overflow
storm sewers.

Inside the fence,
the garden rejoices,
wet plants kneel to ground
leaves folded in prayer.

   

                                                                                                © Kathy Paupore

triple rule

Loch Raven Review Fall 2005 — Vol. I, No. 1
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