Sonnets At The End of Spring
by James Keller


There’s an ocean swell of greenery
in the leafy crowns of trees,
a sea-surge in the sycamores,
a breeze blowing from the Pacific
that rattles windows and slams doors
in old wooden, weathered houses,
that only a few valleys away,
close up to the restless ocean
is a settled ghost of fog
that hugs the wind-sculpted pines,
fills up the solitary dips
in ravines and moistens
the dry lips of vegetation,
then as night descends, becalmed.

Murmuring song of doves at sunset
in the leaf-swaying sycamores
singing the unheard melodies
that long dead composers never wrote down.

And after a while, there is a lull,
a silence punctuated by
rise and fall of leaf music
or simply a breeze in the tops of trees.

At a distance, the world at large goes
about its business as usual,
noisy, frantic and busy
energized and fueled by the pulsing sun.

Here in the solitude of a garden
happily record a day well spent.