The Matron

The Matron

A flush not demure

but forthcoming

anticipates perhaps not youth

but no less adventure.

Spring and Summer
shyly, perhaps coyly,
wear sheer, billowing skirts,
laugh gloriously and foolishly,
the sound delightful,

but Autumn
cloaks herself in wool,
red cheeks, and experience.

Harvests gathered,
rewards reaped,
she sighs, shakes out apron,
loosens hair

for a moment a child,
carefree.  Just one spin
before auburn tresses once again
become silvered and gray,

eyes reflecting sky,
heart's abundance,
and oncoming clouds,

all without a hint of subterfuge.

by Margaret Bednar, November 9, 2018

This is for "Imaginary Garden with Real Toad's - Kerry Say's - How Does the Story End?"  It is important for this prompt to have a STRONG ending line.

I am also sharing this with "Poets and Storytellers United - Writers' Pantry # 92". 

Preparations

Preparations

A few weeks ago deer gathered beneath the apple trees, meadowland and mountains a security of sorts, although coyote (and ever rumored mountain lion) must have been aware of their presence.  Early one morning a late birthed fawn darted about, no adult in sight.  I slowed the car, pondered what to do; startled it more, and my heart grieved.  Sweetness lured them, juicy ripe, bordered on rotten; can't imagine amount of sugar consumed.

The wild orchard is vacant now, temptation played its part, trees less weighted, resplendent for a stint in temporary burnished glory.  Now that's gone too; first frost has lashed her icy tongue and deer slip out of woodland earlier; perhaps for breeding, but consuming as much green as possible.  I wrap my shawl closer, walk the dogs, their awareness of danger or hardship almost non-existent; wolf-like instincts dormant as they beg the cats to befriend them.  Fireside has yet to be shared.

A fine line exists between wild and domestic.  How long would it take for survival and instinct to kick in, or would my puppies be like the fawn, startled out of safety, nature taking its course?  How would I fare if grocery store vanished, if I had to can apples and store food for winter?

Apples over-ripe
a last desperate banquet
before winter's fast.

by Margaret Bednar, November 9, 2019

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Just One Word - Burnished"

Autumn Breath

"Autumn Breath" by Jason Limberg
Instagram jasonlimberg

Autumn Breath

Autumn breath is forgiving,

doesn't force one to pick and choose

like summer heat or winter freeze

but lets one embellish

with silk or knitted scarf,

wrap up in woolen shawl

or don t-shirt with shorts or jeans.

Whispers tenderly, not quite lover,

perhaps more confidante;

listens as I divulge aspirations,

start thinking of a new year,

new beginnings.

A bit like the beavers 

who have fashioned snug shelters,

secured fortifying food,

pelts winter-ready.

A bit like Hunter's Moon

sliding into Full Frost,

soon to become Cold Moon

arcing high across the sky;

change and yet, familiar.

Like caribou who shed 

seasoned antlers

patiently awaiting new velvet,

I too anticipate a crowning;

not one seen, but one inspiring

gifting me with grace, with confidence,

in order to triumph and thrive.

All this in an Autumn Breath.

by Margaret Bednar, November 3, 2019

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Art Flash"

Also linked with "Poets United: Pantry of Poetry and Prose"

Last Stand

Last Stand

Tremulous stalks sway
where once crickets fiddled their way,
nightly concerts played

now silenced as frosty nights
lick quivering petals,

tickle mountainsides bursting aflame;
defiant southern rebels
dressed not in gray

but majestic golds, purples, and reds,
arms raised toward the sun
in surrender.

by Margaret Bednar, October 22, 2019

This is linked with "dVerse - Quadrille #90 - quiver"  44 words

October's Glory

by O. Bentor, Jones House Art Exhibit, Boone, NC

October's Glory

Katydids and crickets fiddle no more,
curtain having closed to boisterous concerts
and lively evening encores; deep silence
awaits frosty nights and quiet days
of soft sunlit meadows and mountains

languish as faded goldenrod
and blazing stewartia nestle
beside devil's walking stick,
spiny stems having nectared butterflies,
its fruit songbirds, foxes, and coons.

Astors flaunt lavender blooms,
grace woodland's edge, bowing low
beneath wind and rain, dignified and humble,
as yellow-tassled witch hazel, defiant
late-blossoming teenagers, gather for flight.

I love the names turtlehead, ironweed,
and poke, jewelweed a favorite, thicketed,
protected orange cornucopia heads
dangling, bursting with seed, favorited
by ruby-throated hummingbirds.

October's glory center-stage,
curtains drawn back, presenting a muffled hush,
not subdued; perhaps tongue-tied,
quieting down, a settling into reverence;
a time to reflect and learn.

by Margaret Bednar, October 22, 2019

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Artistic Interpretions - Alcohol Inks Part II"  

Soaring

Soaring

It's the breeze brushing my cheeks
that carries the silken milkweed,
pods finally bursting,

escaping

above wind-tickled grasses
and cattails welcoming us
along pond's edge

trusting

my black stockinged buckskin
will join the spirit of the moment,
tail and mane flowing,

searching

galloping beneath me: my wings,
releasing me for a moment;
a ribbon unwound,

fluttering

absorbing autumn's tranquility,
understanding the stubborn oaks
who refuse to release their colors

celebrating

another season; holding fast
to the lightness I felt as a child
upon my soaring Pegasus.

by Margaret Bednar, October 16, 2019

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Music with Marian - Prairie in the Sky".