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Pax Living the life Of perpetual turmoil With sporadic episodes Of vicious uproar. Pax, soothing pax— Dove of featherly tranquility Descended Upon my overheated, Frantic mess. She pooped (A demure poop), Upon my Smoking Reeboks— God's righteous contempt For my flashing, Red-light Self-Importance FOUR SEASONS BREEZE | FEBRUARY 2021 43 Writers' Club Reed's Island Rap (Memories of a Hilo Hideaway Paradise) Hung out on the lawns Caught a few fizzly prawns. Boogied the coast far and near, But the Big Show be right here. Checked out Old Hilo But this place is Better than a kilo. Done with the Restin' and cookin'— Now just makin' plans for Hasty future re-bookin'. The Merced The Merced River Comfortable to its shores Flows smoothly Flows rapidly Flows silently Down its round stone channel Alternately squeezed and released By steep sandbanks. A moving sheet of old glass Rippled and dimpled to a vacant sky. I could sit here for a thousand years— Hear the distant trains, Watch the poplars flutter, Listen to a lone bird's monotone song. The effervescent air Carelessly reveals eternal constancy And somewhere behind This cloistered tableau God remains distracted By much larger dreams. Leaving Sunset's hazy pink glow Energizes the dark, tired mountains As I pull out over the dust-dry road. From the lane, her silhouette Waves me goodbye. In the side mirror She is getting smaller. With one gentle motion She scoops up A pliant cat While moving Toward her Della Robbia cottage, Smooth, rhythmic motions Refined by country solitude. I turn at the bend, Her image compresses, Transports through the retina Down my body's core. It's a single drop Of black, octopus ink Falling into water Slowly fanning out — Sinking, Settling, Staining, Strangling My heart. This month we feature five poems by Carl Sutter For more information or to join the Four Seasons Writers' Club, please email:andreazehner20@gmail.com or mlarchibald@mac.com. ~ Mary Lynn Archibald Butterflies Along A Weeded Road Going down a road with evidence of Heavy tracked vehicles that have gone there, I say I love those kinds of heavy machinery— I love to operate them, like the JD 210. The weeds grow up higher and higher As we go along the road, Till they have totally taken it over. In among the weeds are blotches of color. In looking closer, I realize they are butterflies. Orange, blue—the last one I pick up is red, The wings are ribbed—ever so beautiful.