I wore my sunglasses for my morning walk,
today, even though the backyard was still shaded;
the sky was cosmic-blazing blue, winter morning blue,
clear as wind-swept ice. I fed the rabbits, sat
on the picnic table, but, it was cold! So I jumped down
and started my journey...

January, in Arizona, a mix of chill-brown and warmth-green;
plants become acclimated; stoic and forgiving, proudly tattered,
surviving the winter for this worshiper's adoring glance,
happy in communal thanksgiving of life. I give them
their proper dues, touch each with my eyes, these, my teachers.

I am eager to gain sun’s sight, and warmth, my fingers
are freezing, so I head up the side yard, into an
aura-sizzling morning sun. It is immense, hanging low
above the horizon. There is a sharp little breeze
tingling my nose, stirring the few palm fronds left
to my beleaguered palm tree. They sound lonely.

I give the yard a quick look with my Ray-Banned eyes,
coloring sun’s light with an orange-beige.
A different view than rose-colored glasses, more real,
more – dynamic. I notice a jet speeding past
the sun’s halo, and its contrail is a beautiful pastel blue,
instead of white. At sunset, the contrails are pink,
something I had just seen the dusk before. I wish,
as usual, I was flying, somewhere, anywhere, anywhen.

I look away from the sun back to earth, my eyes
strobing sunspots upon the reality surrounding me.
Daffodil bulbs have sprouted leaves all along the fence,
a few are in bloom. The lavender clump crouched
under the mailbox is lushly alive, though its flower stalks
are stiffly dead. The Tombstone Rose looks like a
huge green spider, spinning its looping canes into a giant web.

At the other end of the yard, the roof-level pyracanthea is draping
the air with fat, round-red clumps of berries. I weigh them,
admire their patterns. Below, I spy a few hyacinth already budded,
but in a third-generation, diminutive form. The squat, twisty rosemary
has pale purple flowers wreathing its crooked crown. I smile
at its stubborn nature, touch the blooms, they are pliant, and alive.
Amazing. Behind its soft fierceness, tulip bullets are rising at attention.

The north-side garden, along the walk, was cold and dim,
so I hurried to gather my composition book, noted white violet faces
peeking through the ubiquitous foliage, and saw new growth
on the hollyhock plant. Pen in hand, I retraced my route to the front,
and sat to write. Looking up to the sun, I gave thanks to its grace,
and watched two light blue contrails speed towards me through its halo...

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 1/17/05