Blood-red hibiscus grew
further back from the riverbank
sun-dappled
where I dared not often go;
soft green breezes
in a periwinkle sky
now shimmered tiny bloomlets
now held them an instant in balance
calling
Foxglove and hyacinth mingled there
deeper in the forest, wild
heavy with scent and delicately swayed.
Songbirds by the waterfall
peering down at the pool
found its surface still:
unbroken but for two rootless blossoms
tossed gently to the current
from the hands of almost lovers below.
Poem by Ron Lavalette
Ron Lavalette lives on the Canadian border in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom. His debut chapbook, Fallen Away, from Finishing Line Press, is now available at all standard outlets. In addition, more than 300 of his creations (poetry and short prose) have appeared in journals, reviews, and anthologies ranging alphabetically from Able Muse and the Anthology of New England Poets through the World Haiku Review. A reasonable sample of his published work can be viewed at EGGS OVER TOKYO: http://eggsovertokyo.blogspot.com