The apricot moon rises in my window
as the whirr
of the coffee mill
grinds hand-picked Guatemalan beans
and the
pungent scent wafts up the stairs
where I’m
abed with a reading light
one eye
on the antics of The Monkey Wrench Gang
and their wandering skipper
and one on the sturgeon moon
rising unobstructed above the trees,
a sight the eco-terrorist hooligans would celebrate.
Sheets
of rain rattle the corn in the night
rinsing
dust off the tassels and dampening the windowsill.
The rain gauge fell into the peony bush Gracie hides under
cool soft earth, her secret place.
Only green marble eyes and velvet rose nose peep out at me.
I fish
the gauge out of the foliage
and
hang it back on the railing.
For what
would I be willing to risk
shackles
and confinement,
cat and
home and coffee in the morn?
Written to a prompt from dVerse asking poets to choose at least three names of butterflies in a poem.
My three are:
Wandering Skipper
Green Marble
Velvet Rose
And for What's Going On the poet's blog where this week they've asked us to write something about eyes, what we see or what sees us.