SPRING IN WASAGA
warm on my face, glaring off the pages of my book, casting artful shadows on the greening grass.
tweet songs from bare old maple tree.
fresh and gentle, kisses my neck;
demands slow, deep, restorative breaths;
lifts wisps of my hair in a dance.
Lazy drone of small private plane, skims thro’ azure sky,
not a cloud in sight.
Winter is only a memory.
ON MY PORCH
A breeze whispers through the leaves,
caresses my cheek.
A love song to me
tumble playfully onto the smooth sand
A soft melodic swoosh, swoosh, swoosh.
Rainbow of umbrellas ripple in the breeze
Rainbow of people on the beach, in the water
On their boats and watercraft
Tossing balls, bouncing on their floaters
Reading, people-watching, building sand castles,
The soft wind
draws hatched patterns across the surface of the water
Sea gulls dip, swoop.
Greg out deep, head disappears then bobs up
Me, water to my shoulders, taking in
endless simple pleasures.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .