Sunday Morning, Los Angeles

Here pours the sun through my open kitchen window,
Clear and biting like the coffee,
Vivid like the marmalade upon the wooden table,
Yellow like the butter in the pancake pan,
Sweet and biting like the maple syrup
Suffusing all the air with rushing,
The neighbor’s flower patch shimmering with wings
Of butterflies, while from the bougainvillea
A reckless mockingbird woos his lover
Who answers note for note from her high perch
Above our wanton wisteria.
But is it spring? There are so many false arrivals;
Daffodils that poke their blatant primary color
Through the dank earth, Icelandic poppies
Responding to the earliest sign of sun,
Squirrels feasting on the juice-warm oranges.
There go the jogging ladies: I can see
How they have shed like blankets from a bed
And run in scanty tank-tops. But we two-legged mammals
Are willingly deceived: the distant mountain thaw
Is hope enough and we moult heedless of the north-east cloud formations
Coming our way, coming our way.

I must report had shifted from
Some long encompassing weather pattern
To a subtle climate change:
Only a lazy buzz
Alerted me that the window had let in
A Californian scarab born of sun,
Intelligence supreme, survival sure,
A black and busy bluebottle
Musing around to find a place,
A peaceful springtime place,
My home the place,
For this short season.


by Linda Hepner

Comments (4)

Your place sounds like the perfect place to me Linda. A beautiful poem of spring and flora renewing itself as Hugh says, in the continuum that life is. Roll on spring, and goodbye to all things cold and dead. 10 from Tai
Linda, this is simply a superb piece. It captures a specific time, place of an endless and eternal continuum that life is and it holds its sweetness in the loving details of the morning. Excellent poem. Warm regards, Hugh
for a moment the infinite buzz of cosmic dreams in your very kitchen before your very eyes the coming and going always the coming and going which of course includes all beings simply because all life is but ceaseless transformation a wonderful poem
I could almost breath in that marvelous liquid sunshine! What beautiful imagery. Scarlett