This poem won an award at a writer’s Conference:
Of a Summer Morning
By Elece Hollis
Out in the field where the meadowlark goes,
Red Paintbrushes stand on the tips of their toes.
Butterflies—yellow ones, white, orange, and black
Weave melodies over the grasses and back.
Out in the woods where the tanager sings,
Luna moth travels on gossamer wings.
Timid mouse peeps from his leafy retreat
Looking for wild winterberries to eat.
Down by the swift river’s warm sandy shore,
Sandpipers skitter about to explore.
Water bugs dart across sparkling blue
Where sunlight reflects the sky’s silvery hue.
Deep in the forest’s cool shadowy rooms,
Mosses cling staunchly to fallen tree tombs.
Gray squirrels hold conference on nutting technique
With Jack-in-his-pulpit preparing to speak.
Out in the pasture where cows gentle graze,
White egrets stalk silently through summer days.
Grasshoppers balance—on hot grasses sway
To the melodies blackbirds and barbed wire play.
The following was not intended to become a poem but was composed of lines
I had written to go with a batch of photographs I took and was posting.
It was published in Life Notes this week with editor Cheryl Barker .
The sun is bright and harsh in the
The grasses sway in the heat.
The first leaves dry and float to the ground.
The cicadas thrum and throb.
The trees struggle to provide shade.
Everything metal is too hot to touch.
The pecans begin to dry and their hulls brown and split.
Dragonflies spin and swoop and rest on dry grass stems.
Children swelter until their sweet faces flush rosy.
Little girls go barefoot. Lazy dogs rest in the shade.
Children go swimming in the early morning.
We watch the apples ripen.
Spiders set up webs in broad daylight.
Butterflies flutter across the yard. Cicadas buzz and drone.
Thistle blooms. Last nasturtiums fade.
Farmers line up huge rounds of hay.
Follow the barbed wire to fall.
This poem was published this month in the FCW ReadyWriter as
a “writing to inspire lesson,” by poet writer James Tate.
By Elece Hollis
Sunlight filters down
Through the branches
of towering trees
to the woodland floor.
A few leaves cling tenaciously
to the branches.
The wind pulls at them.
Their shadows dance
in ever-changing patterns
on the narrow winding path.
Moss and low hardy shrubs
hold fast to their places.
Last night’s rain is trapped
in the leafy layers
making a spongy labyrinth
for mice and beetles.
A late butterfly flutters
among the barren branches.
A crow calls from the pine,
“This is my wood,” he screeches.
Despite his scolding,
I do not find this a dreary place,
although it is so different
from the early summer’s world.
It is full of movement,
sound, light and life.
There is a healing here,
a comforting sense of belonging.
Lord, may my life be like
that those who encounter me
may find peace, comfort, hope
and the light
“Then spoke Jesus again unto them,
saying, I am the light of the world:
he that followeth me
shall not walk in darkness,
but shall have the light
The following is one of my favorite poems for late summer:
By Elece Hollis
The porch swing hangs heavy.
The potted plants sigh;
But none is so hot nor
So weary as I.
The music of crickets,
The buzz of the fly
Is droning unanswered
Tired and dry.
The sun on the garden
Has dried every leaf
The vines have all withered
Gone summer’s feast.
The Queen Anne has faded.
Is no longer white.
All life waits in stillness
For coolness of night.
We watch for the promise
Of color on trees,
Of pears and of pumpkins
To come with the ease,
Of cooler and wetter
Oh, welcome relief
From the dogs days of summer.
The satin cerise
Of summer’s late sunsets,
That guarantee all
The geese winging southward
God sending us fall.