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WHITE MAGIC
Ronnie R. Brown
Water warmer than the frigid air,
that’s all it takes. Elementary
science. Still,
you stare. The mist is rising,
steaming near the falls, thinning
as it wends its way
down, down, wisping towards the rapids,
dissolving where the river
opens wide. In an hour or so
it will all be
memory. You stand
as spellbound as
the trees that line the bank--
each transformed, frosted;
white icing limb, branch,
twig. Only the chocolate-
brown swath of trunk
firmly planted
in the frozen ground.
APRIL’S FOOLS I
Ronnie R. Brown
A cool breeze blosing,
our windows lowered
to a crack, we headed for bed
at a quarter to May, woke,
hours later, smack in the middle
of an August heat.
Season-warped for more than a week,
we shuck practical
clothes, expose winter-white
skin to the warmth
of a forgotten sun.
All around us
stunned smiles
on flushed faces
and
rolling on the yellowed grass,
half-naked toddlers
beneath the branches
of the still-bare branches.
SEASONS I
Ronnie R. Brown
Cat naps in the grass
panther paws claw summer air
dream of the jungle
This time of year everything
glistens with the summer heat
Leaves turning, falling
squirrels, dark ciphers blurring
sums of a season
Deep in burrows creatures sleep
blanketed by fall’s farewell
Steam from the river
crystal coating nearby trees
sparkles in the sun
Somewhere deep within the earth
bulbs awaiting their first cue
SUMMER PLACE I
Ronnie R. Brown
Sun’s spotlight dims
dragonflies buzz the lake
the porch glider creaks.
Summer, a time of sounds, smells;
heat’s spell slow-motioning everything.
Humm, click, shrill, surrounds,
dusk dropping like a curtain,
lightening bugs dart, wink.
More time machine than place,
senses of summers past.
Night, the lake only sound,
citronella perfumes the air,
a distant wind chime tinkles.
We lie atop cool, white sheets
enmeshed in memory.
--Ronnie R. Brown--
SNOW I
Ronnie R. Brown
It is only in summer
that she dreams
cool coverlets of white
free of the hints of dirt
and sluge that shade reality.
On sultry summer nights whitecold she feels
it melting from her heat, the moonlight
making it sparkle, adding sheen to her
moist flesh. Only in summer, long
after winter coats have been mothballed, snow
shovels hiddem behind mowers, bags of mulch, rakes,
do her dreams crystallize--
not two of them alike. It is then her mind drifts
becomes desirous of cool, white
flakes falling on her tongue, longs
for the very thing she’ll curse
a few short months from now.
COLD SNAP I
Ronnie R. Brown
Summer
streched beyond reason,
the temperature, a record high
for September--at bus stops,
on the street, people, their bodies
glazed in sweat, talk
about the weather, complain
about the heat.
It should come as no surprise
that the transformation occurs
at midnight. Like a pin puncturing
some giant balloon, suddenly wind
gusts, rattles houses, brings
dreams of disaster and,
in the morning, the gasps
of folks stepping out
into the cold. Summer
gone, fall
snapped into place.
WHITE MAGIC II I
Ronnie R. Brown
Of course, it occurs
gradually, this going
to seed. It’s the eye,
the mind, that perceives it
as a sudden thing. The field
ordinary yellow-green one day,
rarefied over-
night. You waken
to a softer view: fluff
billowing, white
whisps rising, legions
of minute angels
taking wing with every
breath of breeze.
WINTER I
Ronnie R. Brown
The calendar should serve
as warning but you remain hopeful
to the end; ignore the weatherman’s
dire predictions. Oh, you go
through the motions--shake woolens
from their mothballed layers, line up boots,
place the shovel in a convenient spot--
still, like the surprise
you always get when, unprepared,
you catch your image in plate glass,
see, without warning, the lines,
the sag, the grey, you have pretended (will
continue to pretend once you round
the corner) are only figments of
your imagination, one morning
you wake to find icewhitecold. Winter!
And all you can do is hope
that, like all the years before,
in time it will be gone.
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