Donna
Autorin
Nestled in the womb of earth.
Nipping maple root bourbon.
Awaiting a time when I shed this tomb for rebirth.
My song ripens as I practice my Summer sermon.
Time stretches into a decade---seven more years to go.
When the sun's rays reach me for final emerging
And the trees Seasonal cycle gives a final cue, I might appear on your patio.
Or you'll see molted onion-skinned carapaces clinging to tree trunks; stages of purging.
Ready now, winged to fly.
Find a shrub or tree looking for love, I bewitch.
A cacophony of buzzing decibels try.
Spongy air begins to twitch.
Droning tymbal vibrates, heard over a mile and a half away.
Shrill chorus must reach a sweetheart, my stint only lasts for a Solstice.
White-hot sunshine bakes the lazy-hazy day.
Do you know who I am....what do you call this?
©Donna H.
August 2, 2022
Nipping maple root bourbon.
Awaiting a time when I shed this tomb for rebirth.
My song ripens as I practice my Summer sermon.
Time stretches into a decade---seven more years to go.
When the sun's rays reach me for final emerging
And the trees Seasonal cycle gives a final cue, I might appear on your patio.
Or you'll see molted onion-skinned carapaces clinging to tree trunks; stages of purging.
Ready now, winged to fly.
Find a shrub or tree looking for love, I bewitch.
A cacophony of buzzing decibels try.
Spongy air begins to twitch.
Droning tymbal vibrates, heard over a mile and a half away.
Shrill chorus must reach a sweetheart, my stint only lasts for a Solstice.
White-hot sunshine bakes the lazy-hazy day.
Do you know who I am....what do you call this?
©Donna H.
August 2, 2022