A rain, rain, go-away morning,
and its less mellow-fellow,
a gloom-and-doom,
thunder-and-lightning noon,
soon bursts into a
hello-yellow-sunshine afternoon,
when forsythia blooms.
Because even a gray day
can’t stay that way.
Copyright 2026 Brenda Davis Harsham Continue reading
clouds on Mount Greylock,
ever-changing layers of
dark and light
Copyright 2023 Brenda Davis Harsham Continue reading
Elder weed sends up
starry-white flowers,
mini-Queen Anne’s lace.
Its rhizome roots
crowd out hapless
coral bells and astilbe
under our pear tree. Continue reading
Time to celebrate,
time to remember,
but also
time to put away.
Copyright 2021 Brenda Davis Harsham Continue reading
Time,
present and past.
Frozen moments,
remembered and forgotten.
Beauty,
ordinary and extraordinary.
Photographic power
reveals in light and dark
what my mother looked like as
a young girl,
or my father as
he welcomed me to the world,
or myself
as I smiled between
brother and sister
whose faces are only visible
in black and white now.
Lost faces, missed warmth, people
linger in shades, lines, and shapes,
like hieroglyphics of the past.
Copyright 2020 Brenda Davis Harsham
Notes: For World Photography Day today, I offer this ode, in gratitude for how concrete my memories are, of times past.
Like a flower, just opened,
hiding secrets
in my heart,
I have room to bloom,
to stretch and expand
into sunshine, Continue reading
The first sparkling flakes
zip, zig and zag before landing
with soft velvet slippers
atop the last pink flowers,
a’drowse in the fading light. Continue reading
The first petal falls
without a sound
on a day
like any other. Continue reading
Rosy-hued curls, arranged in whirls,
remind me of a clock, stopped.
The minute hand is stuck at twelve.
The hour hand spins too fast to see. Continue reading
Even in winter,
with nary a leaf,
trees hold up the sky,
cut the wind and
frame the stars.
Tall maples sing our future,
lament our past.
First, morning pianissimo
swells to workday allegro
but quickens to andantino
after a tangerine sunset.
A mad tarantella makes
Saturdays ache with dance.
Stormy days, we hear brass
crescendo of crashing branches.
Trees measure our lives.
Each season has its movement,
winter’s pianissimo alternating
with icy crescendo:
concertos made from time,
measured into beauty,
the melody our breath,
the bass our heartbeat.
Woodwind chords are
refined by strings.
In the tree song,
we find time
and healing.
Copyright 2016 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: I hope you are hearing music. Have a great week!
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