Weather’s Roller Coaster

Written for dVerse. Happy New Year and the first dVerse of the year.

sun through trees

©Sascha Darlington

Weather’s Roller Coaster

I could write of fierce January with winds whirling through the naked willow limbs, gunmetal gray skies unyielding, frigid cold, but it wouldn’t be today, a gift of sunshine and short sleeves. Continue reading

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The Continuity of Life #amwriting

Thank you to Rochelle for Friday Fictioneers.

PHOTO PROMPT © Karen Rawson

The Continuity of Life

When I was a child, those narrow planks of wood, steps to the summer cabin, signified the ending of the day. Each evening I begged for more time. The irony doesn’t escape me now. Continue reading

Happy Earth Day! #weekendcoffeeshare

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Despite the fact that quite a bit of the day was overcast, I felt like spring might finally be here. The flowers and trees and birds are doing their best to support this philosophy. The cowbirds and catbirds have returned. It was so nice yesterday to step outside as evening was falling and hear the catbirds. Continue reading

Spring Sometime, a haibun

written for dVerse haibun Monday

Spring Sometime, a haibun

The days are longer now. Typically I’ve shed my winter wool, placed warmer-weather clothes front and center, but the heat is on, and there’s a freeze-warning for tonight. The cherry blossoms have passed. The grass around the tree looks as if it’s been snowed upon with pinkish-hued white petals. My breath curls upward, white. Traffic on the beltway flows, such a winter sound in deep cold, reaches me, the steady hum like ocean waves.

It struck me how odd it was, while walking my dog, bundling myself in my coat, that light still lingered. I never could remember being wrapped so tightly so late in the evening with dusk hovering, the sun setting mauve, and robins caroling.

birds of spring arrive

spring flowers pierce cold hard soil

blossoming yellow

 

Sascha Darlington 4/17/2018

Scent and Memory

dscn0091

Psychologists speak

of scent evoked memory

echoing years ahead

like your yearly calls

come Spring,

as the earth erupts,

heady hyacinth

daffodil

petals

cherry blossoms

like snow,

much sweetness,

not so your words

tangled, slurred,

conveying winter’s frost

in mangled syllables.

 

end 1/31/2017

S. Darlington

 

No Retreat, No Surrender

sun.jpg

I won’t tell anyone.

How your mind reaches for 2 pm and you feel relief you’ve survived another day, how you know moments before, glance at the clock, and it’s always just near, allowing you to retreat, and file.

You were kind to me once, in a thistle-bodied way, aggravated yet demonstrative, clutching and pushing away, teaching me the gray area because I was stupidly naïve and accepted a black and white world. You knew there was no black, no white, just slate, crumbling and leaching.

I won’t tell anyone.

Of your talk of alcohol and pills, on how a warm bath speeds the slowing, how sleep comes and life does not.

But I will speak of spring, the golden narcissus, forsythia, how the sun peaks higher, how the days grow warmer, how the music of birds rises with dawn, how it all passes far too soon without our aid. I will tell you that in all of the sadness, there is kindness and hope and gentle sun-drenched breezes and people who walk instead of run, who smile, who take your hand and wish you joy. Even when prickly, you made me believe in this world; now it’s your turn to believe in it as well.

end 12/26/2016

S. Darlington

Fly Safe

hummer

Each time I pass the window

I glance at the hummingbird feeder

the red disc like a Martian spacecraft

hovering, suspended from an anchor.

The chill today imparts understanding.

Soon, she’ll wing south to tropical locales

while I’ll wash the feeder with vinegar, water,

prepare for winter storage, gray days, long nights,

winds howling fierce while snow trembles,

breath rising like fog, hugging arms for warmth.

 

So very long to April with January and February’s cold

administered, large doses, not quelling memories of warmth

and yellow flowers like the sun, face spilling into silken petals,

fragrance rising like a Puccini aria, embracing, but

not yet. Fly safe little bird, celestial ruby throat,

until next spring, when your repast will be waiting.

 

end 9/15/2016 (2)

S. Darlington