Category: Lessons of Nature

Of Belonging


Credit: K. Kunte, Harvard University
The swallowtail paid a visit this morning, 
a flutter of striped wings,
tipped itself in hello 
as we sipped coffee 
and looked up from our morning paper. 

We smiled at the swallowtail then each other. 
You swear it is the transformed caterpillar 
we rescued from certain death 
as it hung from the dog’s lip
and then tenderly placed 
in safety on the gourd vine leaves
growing by the wood pile.

I do not know. It could very well be.
It is beautiful in its flight.
Its morning joyful greeting of belonging,
of having found its place.

These mornings are life here with you.

The Song of The Mountains

img_8986

Image is my own

Sitting here in New Mexico and looking at these mountains, I wonder if my mother ever heard the mountains of Appalachia sing as I do these.

The mountains sing their history--
of when they knew only tranquility
in the land of their ancient salt seas,
when the sun could not touch them,
when they were virgin still--
safe from the rough hands of the wind,
long before the rise of humanity.

Their song holds the rhythms,
the bars, the layers of the time before--
before an angry molten core,
containing not a single drop of mercy,
drove them from their ancient, peaceful home,
forcing them to be refugees in the kingdom
of sun and wind.

Their song holds the rhythms
of all they grieve
in witnessing humanity’s rise,
dripping in eternal inhumanity.

At the feet of the mountains, the lilacs,
nourished by snow melt tears,
bow their heads and dance in the rhythms
of the mountains’ song—
A dance of homage
to such ancient ones.



https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wITB_k8gX78&list=OLAK5uy_nKHcHbv67IP6facZWpq6ZwAhVrhAxMwQg&index=5

Morning Wakes

Photo by Lum3n on Pexels.com
morning wakes

while a warm stretch 

of sunlight crosses the room

to sweetly caress--

as morning sighs 

a sleepy breath,

flowering in its soul.

A Winter’s Afternoon

Image is my own




The mountains draw their shawls of clouds

‘bout their shoulders to ward off the damp chill,

humming as if about to settle down

into rocking chairs before a fire

and knitting away this afternoon of winter

as they chat about the doings 

of their children, grandchildren,

and their neighbors to the west.



Perhaps, this is why--

the birds flit and chirp

singing songs of spring

as they nibble at the suet cakes

you’ve left for them.

The Leaves

Photo by Mak_ jp on Pexels.com
Leaves tumble like years,
never what they once were,
drained, lost in their way,
trembling in the cold
chill of damp night air
after a day of rain
until the warmth of sunrise
touches them.
Delighting, the leaves find
the strength to sigh.

Were it in the realm
of possibility,
I’d collect each leaf,
restore it to its spring beauty,
bundle them into decades,
and gift them to you.

But it is a silly
before coffee morning thought
as we both know leaves like years
cannot be reclaimed and restored
and smile at the thought.

The Birth of Autumn

Image is my own
At the edges of this cool morning,
humming with the dying of summer,
I, long awake, attend to things
that must be done:
dogs fed; trash pulled to the curb;
a load of laundry started;
hummingbird feeders cleaned;
all ordinary, mundane things—
This chill in the air has me wish
I’d put on a jacket, yet the chill
will be gone by noon. 
And I find I smile.

For the first time,
I do not despair at the dying
of this year’s summer,
but find a joyous warmth 
in the light as this year’s autumn
is born.

Where Cloud Shadows Paint

Image courtesy of Shutterstock.com
still
quiet,
breath stops
a moment--
striations apparent
upon the red rock
in the distance--
sound
unheard
speaks a language
our ancestors once knew--
perhaps our souls once spoke
words lost to us now

yet here where
clouds paint shadows
upon the land
our souls feel
the rhythm
of a language
we once knew

A Small Moment

image is my own
Strong, the breeze this evening

bringing the scent of grilling burgers 

from a distant neighbor’s yard.

The sounds of soft sighs issue 

from the dogs at my side.



The hummingbirds perform

an elegant ballet concerning

territorial claims as the symphony

of their brilliant buzzing

makes us all look up.



Stillness—

Then—



A rumble in the distance.

The scent of rain at war

with the scent of grilling burgers

from the neighbor’s yard.

The drops of rain pelt,

driving away 

the smell of grilled meat.

Now, only the scent of rain remains.

The battle won.



Protected under the patio cover,

The dogs and I sigh.

Seeking

image courtesy of WP library 
I fled from days

of standing under your patchwork roof

offering no protection from the rain,

least of all my own rain pouring out of me,

threatening always to drown in its leave taking.



So I learned to float, flowing along the curves

others presented in my efforts to find

time, love, home, 

the back roads where berry bushes 

grow in abundance.

Yet I never tasted,

never picked any berries,

fresh off the branches.

Instead, I always found

the snakes hidden, lying in wait

beneath the berry bushes,

for the seeking,

and I, always bitten,

never learned my lessons

of serpents who lay in wait,

or the lessons of Eve,

I still sought,

in spite of the venom,

in spite of the bites—



I found the rains pouring out of me

once again

to travel on 

seeking

What Moses Must Have Felt When Looking Upon God’s Back

Image courtesy of pinterest.com

This is an older poem that I’ve dusted off and changed around a little. The end is entirely new but in keeping with the hike in Colorado that inspired it. I was so struck by seeing the one tree leaning upon the other I did not think to whip out my phone to take a picture of the sight. In that moment of observation of the trees, it seemed a violation to do so. 


In the woods
two trees stand,
equally rooted,
firmly in the ground.

Yet, as if deciding
it a curse of solitude
to try and touch a Sky
who never reached back,
one turned 
to touch the other,
leaning its trunk
against its forest mate’s.

And so, I found them,
standing as lovers,
one resting upon the other,
limbs entwined in embrace.

I lowered my head 
out of respect mingled
with a bit of embarrassment
at glimpsing their
beautiful intimacy.


I  turned,
walked down the trail,
crunching dried leaves
beneath the fall of my heavy boots
as I continued on among the trees
in  silence and solitude.