Let It HowL

Let It Howl

Summer escapes sometimes unscathed.
Perhaps, it is the wind that pronounces
its blessing or curse upon all of us, shouts at us
from the west, north, and then the northwest, sometimes

simultaneously from all three.
Early morning usually dawns quiet with just a whisper
but by nine, the wind abruptly climbs
from its lethargic bed like some giant lizard

that hasn’t eaten in days, perhaps weeks.
As summer matures and ripens into fall,
the winds clamor for winter and snows and blasts
from the direct north, hoping to catch one of us unawares

at the post box to snatch the paper and fling it south
where it will melt when the sun bores down on Wyoming.
But we are too cautious, perhaps arrogant,
that we will beat this nasty wind.

Let it howl like wolves at night,
just meters from the sheep in Uncle Milt’s pens.
We shall prevail and capture mail before
the winds know we are there to fetch it.

Let it howl as we dig and chisel dirt
around for the 20’ x 30’ garden. We will prevail
in growing daisies, raspberries, strawberries,
mums, grape hyacinths, petunias, and even peonies.

Let it howl that we may see its ferociousness,
its lagging red tongue of strength.
Perhaps, it can show how it shifts tumbleweeds
from fence to fence, from farm to farm.

Let it howl that we may howl back,
with thick voices, choked with pride,
shake our fists, stamp our thick boots
on the hard ground, frozen tundra of the high plains.

Let it Howl

Let It Howl

Summer escapes sometimes unscathed.
Perhaps, it is the wind that pronounces
its blessing or curse upon all of us, shouts at us
from the west, north, and then the northwest, sometimes

simultaneously from all three.
Early morning usually dawns quiet with just a whisper
but by nine, the wind abruptly climbs
from its lethargic bed like some giant lizard

that hasn’t eaten in days, perhaps weeks.
As summer matures and ripens into fall,
the winds clamor for winter and snows and blasts
from the direct north, hoping to catch one of us unawares

at the post box to snatch the paper and fling it south
where it will melt when the sun bores down on Arizona.
But we are too cautious, perhaps arrogant,
that we will beat this nasty wind.

Let it howl like wolves at night,
just meters from the sheep in Uncle Milt’s pens.
We shall prevail and capture mail before
the winds know we are there to fetch it.

Let it howl as we dig and chisel dirt
around for the 20’ x 30’ garden.
We will prevail in growing daisies, raspberries, strawberries,
mums, grape hyacinths, petunias, and even peonies.

Let it howl that we may see its ferociousness,
its lagging red tongue of strength.
Perhaps, it can show how it shifts tumble weeds
from fence to fence, from farm to farm.

Let it howl that we may howl back,
with thick voices, choked with pride,
shake our fists, stamp our thick boots
on the hard ground, frozen tundra of the high plains.

Fall

Fall

Fall sneaks in like mice at night.
One day, the trees are green;
flowers bloom; tomatoes still produce.

Yet, next morning, summer’s elegance
flees at 32 degrees and below.
The first freeze is always the toughest, most brutal.

I try to cover the vegetables,
anticipating the initial freeze.
But the day before, that gorgeous 72

and no wind lulled us into a false security.
Even at midnight, when I rise, a bit blurry-eyed,
to relieve the one glass of water too many

before bed, the temperature still hovers around 40.
Not feeling the mercury drop outside, I climb back
under the red sheets, now cold from my absence,

fall to sleep, thinking nothing of the frost
that surreptitiously creeps in around 2:00 a.m.,
delicately kissing each tomato, each colored flower.

Frost is no respecter of flowers or vegetables
or anything that might be dainty and vulnerable.
He is clandestine, yet sometimes blatant, and then lingers

for his big brother—winter’s snow—cheating
everything beautiful, yet simultaneously creating beauty
in his own wonderfully white, fresh way.

And spring, their sister, waits her turn, patiently.