Worriedman’s Substack

The birds' song and the water's drone, /The humming bee's low monotone, /The murmur of the passing breeze,/ And all the sounds akin to these -

My father’s mother grew a garden of zinnias to divide the house from the woods:/ pop art tops in every color—cream, peach, royal purple, and even envy

Softly blow lightly O twilight breeze/ Scarcely bend slightly O silver trees:

The little bird sits in the nest and sings/ A shy, soft song to the morning light;/ And it flutters a little and prunes its wings.

You are belted with gold, little brother of mine,/ Yellow gold, like the sun/ That spills in the west, as a chalice of wine/ When feasting is done./

The sun went down in beauty/ Beyond the Mississippi side/ As I stood on the banks of the river/ And watched its waters glide;

The cicada’s dry monotony breaks over me./ The days are bright and free, bright and free.

Just a dash of lambent carmine Shading into sky of gold;/ Just a twitter of a song-bird Ere the wings its head enfold;/ Just a rustling sigh of parting From the moon-kissed hill to breeze;

heavy sun lifts himself—is lifted— bit by bit above the edge of things,—runs free at last

Sandy the fireworks are hailin’ over Little Eden tonight,/ Forcin’ a light into all those stoned-out faces left stranded on this Fourth of July

When the scarlet cardinal tells/ Her dream to the dragon fly,/ And the lazy breeze makes a nest in the trees,/ And murmurs a lullaby,/ It is July.