THE SEASONS:
For everything, there is a season…



Barbara D. Parks-Lee







Copyright©2010 by Barbara D. Parks-Lee
All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without written permission from the author except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.


Cover and other photography by the author


ISBN 0-9655292-2-3







THE SEASONS:
For everything, there is a
season …


Barbara D. Parks-Lee
Acknowledgements


Always, thanks to the Omniscient Narrator of my Life, God.

This book of poetry was encouraged by Emma Brown and Dr. Frances J. Carter, my friends who demanded that I get outside my comfort level of just writing and begin to share my thoughts with others.

I thank them for their encouragement and editing suggestions.

My husband, Willie Lee, Jr., and my children, Claire and Clarence Parks, are always positive and patient, and I value their presence in my life.






















Autumn:
A Time of Harvest and Reflection, A Mellow Time, A Resonant Reminder to Turn Within













Reverie
The fall of the year is my favorite time.
Trees dress up in party clothes—
Others wear leaves adorned with lipstick crimson.

The air is crisp at night, sometimes warm,
sometimes cool during the day.
A time of quiet settles o’er the earth.

Now a time of harvest and reflection
quietens the frenetic pace of other seasons.
Only winter is quieter, but its quiet is enforced.

Autumnal quiet is gradual, voluntary.
The first freeze bids biting bugs good-bye.
The acrid smell of wood smoke scratches the nose.

I relax in the routines of the season:
Putting out bird food, sweeping the walk free of leaves,
Settling in to await the changes yet to come.

Glimpses on an Early Fall Morning

A leaf, sliding quickly down the roof,
like a playful child on a sliding board;
Trees, some naked, others still fully clothed,
like silent sentinels against a gray sky;

Subdued russet, gold, and garnet leaves,
Shivering in the wind before un-up,
Like scantily clad aging party girls
Who have stayed out too long;

A horizon changing
from charcoal to dove gray to early dawn blue,
like a mood changing
from depression to the blues to joy;

quiet evergreens standing ageless, timeless,
and ever-present,
like the memories of days gone by
and of childhoods past.

1-13-‘93

The Crown of the Almighty

Like fat, yellow snowflakes
against a soft, blue sky
leaves drift, on an autumnal breeze,
softly, ever so softly, toward the earth.

A flash of crimson here,
a bit of russet and orange and burgundy yonder
announce the unending cycle
of death, renewal, and rebirth.

They go out on a blaze
of awe-inspiring, heart-thumping colors—
different from anything ever seen before,
yet somehow, the same.

The horizon, like fine, oriental carpets
or hand-woven tapestries too expensive
for just one to own,
intertwines the greens, browns, sumac reds, oranges, yellows—

Colors that glisten in the sunlight
after an evening’s rain,
royal jewels in the crown
of the Almighty.

10-15-93

Hush. The Storm Approaches

Smell the perfume of the storm;
Watch the leaves change from green to silver.
Listen as all living things quieten
and anticipate the coming storm.

The air moves in a different way
at the advent of the storm.
The clouds roll in,
and the first raindrops splatter
on the dry dust of parched summer’s day.

Birds wait out the shower
in the shelter of the trees.
The wind picks up,
and the sound of the rain increases.

Oh, wow! Did you see that gorgeous lightning bolt?
Listen to the orchestra of celestial tympani
as the peals of thunder
vibrate even the molecules of the soul.

It’s a quiet time—a time of renewal and cleansing.

The rain’s crescendo becomes pianissimo.
The first birdsong signals the storm’s end,
and the sun dares to peek from behind a cloud
and then proclaim to the world,

“Look! See the newly washed world,
with rested eyes and a cleansed mind.”

9/23














Song of Gratitude

Thank You, God for:

Wind moving saffron-colored leaves
across the street
like so many earth-bound butterflies.

Amethysts, rubies, emeralds—nature’s jewels
that sparkle in the early autumn sun
and hint of regal glory in the gloaming.

The snap in the air
and the crunch of leaves underfoot;
the smell of wood smoke as someone
lights the fireplace to take off the chill of the evening.

Making my Dad’s transition quick and painless
—or less painful—
in this most beautiful of seasons.

Pulling forth from my inner Core
the strength, the patience, the love, and the wisdom
to know and TO PRACTICE that

“Everyone does the best they can,
and know how to do,
where they are at this moment.”

Students who demand my time
and who strive for excellence,
even under the most stressful of conditions.

New challenges I can master and
grow stronger from as a person;
Contributions only I can make
and the confidence to take the steps
necessary to accomplish miracles of the soul.

Again, I thank You, God, the Good and Merciful,
Who dwells within the center of my soul.

Amen.

10-20-88




Observation on Sunday, October 20, 1991

The horizon is aflame,
not with fire,
but with the brightness
of the soon-to-be embers of leaves
that recycle in a blaze of light.

This time of year is a mellow time;
a winding down is at hand.
The honks of migrating geese signal
a resonant reminder to turn within.



































Thoughts on October 22, 2004

The leaves are really beginning to fall faster—
now that the rain has slackened off.
Yellow bits of color waft past the window, bounce off the roof,
settle in the gutters, nestle along the edges of the driveway,
and stick like starry barnacles to the windows of the car.

There is just enough of a chill in the air
to let me know that cold weather is not far away.
There is so much to do between now and then.
Will the house be finished before snow?
Living with dust and clutter can be nerve-racking,
but I guess things have to get worse before they get better.

The kitchen is three quarters finished;
just the last little touches remain.
There are curtains to be purchased and hung,
the green rug to be found and washed,
the remaining kitchen items
from the living and dining rooms to be given new homes.

The basement should have been finished by now,
but Eric and his crew have not been keeping up
to their word about being here five days, eight hours each week.
They say they have underbid the job, but that is not my fault.
Frustration is not far off, but I’m trying to hold it
at bay long enough to get the house in good order.






















Winter:
Cold, Bone-chilling, Branch-snapping Cold Beauty











Transitions

The warm caressing zephyrs
of a summer’s languid breeze,
Near nakedness,
clothes above the knees,
The biting cold, howling sting
of the harsh northwest wind,
Everything covered,
furs from toes to the chin.

Light-hearted puppy,
Arthritic old dog,
Fast-swimming tadpole,
Green croaking frog.

Saplings, just planted
in neat rows down the street,
Venerable wizened trees
whose boughs arch and meet.

Skipping, beribboned children
Running at play
Cane-wielding elders
thankful for yet another day.

1-12-97










Sharing in God’s Largess
Several of them fluttered,
wings outspread,
Secure in the knowledge that there
was enough,
that there would always be enough
for those with faith.

The big, the small,
the brightly colored, the dun—
all perched at the edge of the feeder,
taking turns with manners
that could teach human beings a thing—or two.

A cardinal red, juncos, titmice,
and starlings, too,
seemed to understand
that the bluejay would eat only
what he needed to survive—just as would they all.

The birds looked askance
as the shutter clicked,
louder than I had hoped it would,
flitted to nearby branches,
then returned to their rightful share.

No one bird was more special
than any other, no one’s need
greater than another’s.
Yet they kept their holding patterns
as they bade each other, “Eat.”

Humans might strengthen their faith,
as lessons from the birds,
shared with us as freely as the snow,
uphold the laws of God’s largess,
and provide for us all more than we know.

Watching birds seems oh,
so simple,
but what complex lessons they show.
No one on earth would need
to suffer,
if everyone learned to care.

Never would there be any doubt
that there are ample blessings here.
Winter Morning

Evergreen cedar fronds covered in liquid diamonds;
Tall blade of grass with glistening water beads;
Clear birdsong from a happy songbird;
Corpulent squirrels chasing each other
through holly trees laden with berries red;
A quiet, stained glass window
suddenly aflame with newly-arrived sun;
These, all these, and more electrify
the quiet beauty of this,
the last Sunday of the passing year.

12-29-91


































After the Storm

Trees encrusted with shimmering liquid diamonds,
Leaves so clean that their new greenness sparkled,
Streets clear of dust, and
Birds with feathers sleek and colors bright sang anew.

All these—and more—bespoke
the joy that followed
the storm last night.

The lightning lit the blackened sky;
the wind howled hauntingly.
Hail beat its own melody
on the shed’s metal roof,
and the rain fell in torrents
that cleansed the evening’s air.

Felled trees blocked the highways.
Failed electric power
left us free to snuggle
in the darkness of a stormy night.

The peacefulness of the blackness
blended with the soft sounds of our breathing,
and we slept, secure in the knowledge
that all was right with the world.





















Observation on a Warm December Afternoon

Boughs of evergreen,
forced to dance
by almost temperate December winds,

Looked longingly for snow,
fallen to provide a crystal lacy filigree
of ice, more appropriate for the season.

Russet leaves cling,
tenuously, turning first inside, then out,
waiting to join the recycling bin.

Torrential rain,
pushed by heavy wind,
sporadic sunlight filtering through the trees.

Clouds settling in,
harbingers of the winter on its way.



































Snow Day

Cold, bone-chilling, branch-snapping cold!
Holly tree dressed in icy crystal ornaments;
Oak trees glazed over in shiny, glistening mirrors of water;
Streets, too slick to walk on;
Streets, hidden under ice covers that show no sign of leaving.

City closed down. Snow day.

Sun so bright it hurts your eyes;
Maples covered in black ice;
Walks, lawns, and driveways covered, all made the same in texture;
Filigrees and curlicues come together in weeds and brush and trees
that are now art works encased in ice,
Things that before had only been unnoticed weeds and brush and trees.

City closed down. Snow day.

1-18-94

Snowy Meditation

Trees, covered in a soft confectioners’ sugar dusting of snow,
stand mute beside the highway
and deeper into the park.
Only a flit of red—a cardinal—
brings movement to the background
of evergreens standing against the horizon.

It is a soft time of morning.
Snow, in ever-increasing
soft dollops of whiteness,
clings to branches no longer naked,
but covered in a yellowish pinkish
tuft of new, budding, but yet unborn , leaves.

3-18-94































Pregnant Silhouettes

Silhouettes in black etch themselves
onto a rain-gray sky;
Hairy black fingers and larger ebon arms
reach heavenward.
A soft rain quietens the morning’s sounds,
and trees, now naked, but pregnant with buds,
soak in the nourishment
and wait for the soon-to-come spring.

On the hill outside my window
a fallen tree trunk rests on its side;
raindrops glisten on a sapling sprout.
The house on the hill stands
forlorn and bereft of its owners—
one now ill and the other dead.
A blackened chimney from last week’s fire
stands sentinel over the deserted grounds.

Soon fingers and arms of yellow and hot pink
and white and red will brighten the sky
as forsythia, jonquils, daffodils, azaleas, snowdrops, and redbud
paint the barrenness of the hillside
and the brownness of winter.
Silhouettes now in black will don new-leaf green,
and a rain-gray sky will become the sunny blue
of a mesmerizing spring morning.

3-3-90

























Spring:
“The Time for the Singing of Birds Is at Hand.” Song of Solomon







…For Early Morning Gifts…

What a beautiful morning!
Sing, birds, sing!

Inspire me to write my thanks
for things taken for granted.

My soul is renewed and refreshed
after a good night’s perfect rest.

My body is healed and whole,
and my dull edges sharpened.

Skies of early-morning blue
highlight the intensity of the coming day.

Squirrels thump, horse-like, across the roof
to their above-ground highways..

Sing, birds, sing!

Motivate me as you have motivated
others before me.

Soothe my soul with trills
and arpeggios too perfect to replicate.

5-8-90



















What a Morning!

Black dots with miniature wings flew high
above my head that was beginning to appreciate
the coolness of the breeze against the hot sweat
that trickled freely through my hair and down my back.

Toward a round gray twig set to snap under my shoe, toward the velvet soften of the newly mown grass as it covered the dun-colored patches of hard, bumpy soil that kept peeking through the beggars, seeking the verdant covering of the rest of the lawn.



Speed Limit

20 mph the signs say.
Fast, much too fast
to appreciate the fuchsia,
magenta, and pinkish whites
of azaleas, magnolias,
and ground covers too plentiful,
too beautiful to glimpse at 20 mph.


4/18/99

















The Azaleas

My favorite place in the city,
the azalea hill in the heart of the city,
unbeknownst to many who live here,
popular with those from far away…
Blooms hot pink, with pregnant buds,
waiting to spring forth
into awe-inspiring splendor.

4/18/99



















The Arboretum

Koi as long as my forearm
loll beneath the surface,
shaded by magnificent water lilies,
fed by those wanting a closer look
at their golden and alabaster beauty.

4/18/99

































Thoughts Stirred by Soft 4 a.m. Rain

Birds that sing in the shower
are as happy as I.

I once thought that a bird
would drown if it
opened its mouth to sing in the rain,

But now I know that that is not true.

4-29-89
































Spring Rain


A spring rain that starts in sprinkles
then grows into torrents,
provides the perfect backdrop to a cozy snuggle
with a patient, gentle man
whose measured breathing
provides a calming music
to the symphony of my soul.

A hard spring rain, on the other hand,
gives a time to think as the elements
beat a measured tattoo
against the walls and the windows
inside and outside my mind,
while the rain rinses the cobwebs
from my mind, the tension from my body.

All spring rains, whether slow or torrential,
signal the time for quietude,
a time to go within the fibers
of my connectedness with the Universal Power
that provides sustenance for every living thing.
Once inside, I am safe and secure and calm;
I feel at one with all living things,
a part of the ultimate orderly scheme of things.

7-3-91













Ode to an Early Spring’s Morn

Clothed in new-leaf greens and beiges,
trees stand guard duty
around the school’s perimeter.

A rectangular patch of dandelion-embossed grass
hides from the sun in the shade
of the cold white concrete that forms the walls
of the building known as the Tower of Power.

II
The eternally blue sky
shelters black bits of airborne life
too small to cast a shadow on us here below
but as significant to their loved ones as we to ours.

The chirping of birds,
the cawing of a far-away crow,
and the barking of an even farther away dog
punctuate the stillness of the morning and
disturb my musings about why I’m here.

III

The nippiness of the wind in my hair,
only slightly alleviated by
the sun’s warmth on my face
let me know that in the autumn of my life,
spring is as predictable as breathing,
so predictable, in fact, that long
after only my essence remains,
an early spring morning will
still stir the pollen and
swell the senses of others yet unborn.







Observation

A field of yellow buttercups,
looking like splashes of gold
thrown freely about the ground—

The trilling of a songbird
high in the tree
covered with new-leaf green—

Call forth memories of childhood
when I picked a bouquet
of buttercups

And marveled
at the dropped feather
that floated from a robin’s nest.















Ode to…

The sight of white things hung
carefully on the line
brings back the childhood memory
of the clean small of sun-dried linen.

Puddles of mirrors reflect
a blue sky dotted with cotton balls
and a lone pigeon that seemed
to enjoy soaring on the updraft.

Hoary-headed dandelions stand sentinel
in a field of yellow buttercups
while persistent golden dandelions
force their way between the cracks
in the plaza’s concrete.

The hardness of the concrete
on my behind
is no where near as hard as the cracks
through which these pesky flower weeds
must press their way to salute the day.

Not yet hoary-headed but too old
to be considered youthful any more,
I bless the softness of the wind against my skin
and revel in the warmth of the spring sun
against my back and neck.

Yet can I feel, yet do I marvel
at pinwheels gently floating toward earth,
Waiting again to complete the cycle of life.

4-21-98





Shower

The luminescent sparkle
of blades of grass,
made jewel-like by the shower’s aftermath,
insisted they be pressed
into my permanent memory of treasures.

They, stately and solid as a rock
jutting from a field of flowers,
began to dredge a furrow in my mind—
replacing the sullenness
of a moody, cloudy day.

Noting that natural riches
were mine for the taking,
I marveled at how the wind
caressed these most fragile
of transient, tidy diamonds,
freely strewn by the side of the road.























Rainy Afternoon

I contemplate a rainy afternoon
with overcast clouds
and baby raindrops
that spatter against a mirrored pond
whereon geese glide
and ducks drowsily paddle
their way toward
the quiet stillness of the center.

4/18/99





























“Beauty is the Splendor of Truth.” Plato

Birds, soaring freely against the rising sun
Bees, enraptured by a lily’s pollen
A spidery web, festooned with dew—

Nothing can I explain;
Everything I can appreciate.

A starburst inside a flower,
Wonders too great for us to duplicate,
A catkin grasping precious droplets—

We’re all unique, yet one,
In the Grand Design of Nature’s mystique.

The wrinkled face of one not as old as the planet,
smiles a smile
as the planet spins,
like a striated beach ball,
in the vast blackness of space.

4-30-98
































Summer: “There’s a Time and a Place for Everything under the Heavens.” Ecclesiastes 3:1









Moonlight Sonata


There’s a French vanilla
moon out tonight.
Its halo brightens
the darkness of a flat navy sky.
Soft vapors from the humidity
of the day caress my skin,
and I am calm.

To sing sweet music
and then to behold the light of the moon
is a glorious feeling
and a gift from God,
a joy that ends too soon.

Yet, and still, I am calm.

6-7-90




























Night Blooming Cereus

Fragrance as sweet and light
as a baby’s whisper
Buds that bloom slowly,
imperceptibly, into blossoms
spectacular, yet fragile

Petals that open into layers
tight and not so tight
sharing their ethereal splendor
only when the night is fully awake.

7-4-91









“Peace, Be Still”

Dew, like liquid spider webs,
sparkles in the early morning grass.

It hangs, suspended, from the fronds
of the Boston fern waving gently in the breeze.

Its wetness, a breakfast libation,
sustains birds and other creatures small.

Dew, cool like the crystal glass in your hand,
dampens and stills the dry dust of the previous day.

A perfect spider’s web reaches
from a lower branch of the climbing rose bush
to the edge of the porch,
where dew makes it shimmer
like a bejeweled gossamer trinket
enhanced by an onyx, off-center, very still spider.

8-13-94
























Pinecones and Rose Petals
The needles of a pine tree
bespeak the prickly points of its fruit,
the pinecone.

The velvety sensuousness of a rose petal
is even more enjoyable
once the rose’s thorns have been avoided.

Life goes on from pinecones
stuck deep and painfully within the soul
to rose petals
wedged comfortably within the recesses of the mind.

The continuum
includes not only pain but also pleasure…