“Twilight at Two”

Metal swathed the sky, muffling birdsong with a north wind’s sigh   

Drops splatted, engorged, against the windows   

Miniature rivulets snaked down the glass   

The double bass drum reverberated, vibrating the air with tension   

Breaking open the sky   

Twilight at two   

Time to strike wooden matches, to inhale subtle sulfur   

Pad from room to room lighting clustered candles   

Genuflecting before each tiny flame     

Celebrating the charm of enlightenment     

Jasmine, cranberry, lavender eucalyptus trail through the house   

A wake of scent drifting within the pools of light   

Shadows soothe as rain song hums in harmony   

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“This Is Texas”

Mountain Laurel out front

         The air conditioner hummed, churning out cool air since the outside thermometer climbed. As usual, Texas teased everyone with an early taste of spring. Our weather casters gleefully warned, though, that one more blast of cold air will surge from the north, plunging our temperatures once again.

Rose out back

         During the night, this rush of artic breath exhaled, and Texas shivered. All of the blossoms on the trees screamed, the buds of my roses yowled at the biting wind, the birds retreated to huddle in nests, and the squirrels in our backyard despaired because they threw out the tuffs of cushion padding they’d collected all winter.

         I sit smugly at my monitor, fully confident that this final flirt with freeze will usher in spring. Every March, around my parents’ wedding anniversary, winter invades our home one more time. With the fury of a thwarted two-year-old, winds will howl. Sometimes we’ve had rain and ice with this final tantrum. Sometimes hail the size of golf balls hammer our roofs and dent our cars. Sometimes snow flurries whirl and swirl, leaving the ground dusted in white.

         I respect this final ferocious fit of winter.   

Clover peeking through the new woven fence

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman