Lightly she descends--
her feet move toward us,
over the crest of the Vermont hills.
In her footsteps
spring vernal pools;
in her hair are golden
with black-barred wings
As she passes,
her breath breathes early violets
and crushed grass, mixed
with notes of woodsmoke and diesel.
She skirts the dusty tractor
tilting down by the brook;
the hem of her garment trails
tin cans and gum wrappers.
At night the peepers sing her coming
in diminishing chorus
Harmonizing with a faint police siren
from the next valley.
Stars are her sprinkled diadem,
Milky Way flowing slow as time,
through black cutouts of trees;
outshown by streetlights.
Tattered, rain-blown, discouraged,
still she comes to us,
Arms scattering lilacs.
-- Peggy Brightman (c) 2016
Copyright © Peggy Brightman | Year Posted 2018