Stories in the Grass

by P.B. Adams

If one can be quiet while roses

are just blooming in the east,

nature sleepy still–a small bird

piping perhaps or a dragonfly softly

darting and hovering, the mercurial

silver beat of air whipped briefly for speed

and wind just light upon your cheek,

a breath that sweeps deep

sleep from sodden eyes, hushing

the waking world for a moment–

in such a moment you may hear

stories in the grass. Naturally,

there will be some rasping

complaints about a lack of rain

or too much sun or biting green

locusts from the tall slender stalks,

throats parched with height–but listen

close, the tender young greens beneath

will be whispering the gossip they keep

passing through every field in one halcyon

green wave that sets the raspberry

red clover heads off with knowing nods,

the sweet scent rising to almost

a giggle, soothing a waking meadow

to patience with the world.

Stories are whispered in dawn

meadows but truthfully without

words each brings the will to hear

himself or nothing but the empty wind

among the rustling leaves of grass.

One Blue Morning

by P.B. Adams

The wharf was silent, sunlight level
between bay and fog hovering
over coast, clinging fearfully
as a reluctant child afraid
of the deep when I saw the still
dream bound world turn blue.

A blue fog reflecting ultramarine
sea slapping weathered wharf
planking and pilings ashen
blue even more ancient in days
than the old fishermen
huddled in their heavy navy
macs and slate blue pipe
smoke so like the pallor
of their drawn faces
and beryl hands starving
for sea air. Ocean blue
haunting every story,
and the very piers
where they linger dreaming
of the larger life at sea that electrifies
minds with storm and struggle
then escape of the deep
sleep in the hands of angels.

The buildings beyond the wharf too
were blue, some still twinkling
incandescently against the remains
of midnight blues and the lonely
forgotten many who come and go
never knowing more than the small
dry world of factory, tenement house,
and asphalt streets that melt
shoes and hearts alike
in their comings and goings
yet all cast in blue as the silent
new day shyly creeping
upon their shaded indigo
and still drab doors muted
among dreams and shut fast
against what comes and goes 

prowling in the night.

Then looking down
from my place on the pier,
I saw bountiful colors
in the sea at dawn–
the green sea grasses,
the red, yellow, orange
darting fish unconcerned
with the blue world above.