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LOCAL FORECAST
by April Halprin Wayland
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I’m suspended in midair
like there’re wings on me
in my lifeguard chair
by the avocado tree
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and a quick spring breeze
weaves leaves in my hair
while bitsy birds with fat black beaks
chitchat in teeny tiny cheeps.
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A bee buzzes near…
I hold my breath—he disappears.
A toffee-colored hummingbird whirs past me—
he doesn’t hear the clicking of these laptop keys.
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It’s clearly spring up here
in my lifeguard chair.
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(c) 2011 April Halprin Wayland, all rights reserved
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The story behind the poem:
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We live in Southern California; we have a lifeguard chair in our backyard. Â Today I dragged it across the lawn under the persimmon tree. I climbed into its wood seat with my laptop and felt as if I were in a tree house. Bright green persimmon leaves brushed my cheeks, a hummingbird sipped nectar from the yellow iris, tiny sparrow-like birds twittered on the avocado tree. Â Oh, my.
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The magic of poetry, for me, is making order out of chaos. Â My jottings were chaotic. Â I fiddled with them and placed them on the page in different ways, listening to the beats, fictionalizing along the way. Â Then I stepped back to watch the design appear, as I used to watch photos develop in my darkroom–that’s when I get a writing high. Â How about you?
The magic of poetry, for me, is making order out of chaos. Â My jottings were chaotic. Â I fiddled with them and placed them on the page in different ways, listening to the beats, fictionalizing along the way. Â Then I stepped back to watch the design appear, as I used to watch photos develop in my darkroom–that’s when I get a writing high. Â How about you?
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It’s your turn. Go outside and sit. Â Watch. Â Listen. Â Write. Â Play with rhythm and rhyme!
