Category: 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.

of sea level and altitude

Photo by Valdemaras D. on Pexels.com
Forgive me, I ramble,
telling you of life at sea level--

where a steady pour of hours stream,
and minutes bead against the windowpanes
as the seconds mist into fog--
decades of earth and rock liquify--
A mottled mix of flowing colors and viscosities
defiant and devoid of any beauty
to ease a slippery sharp-edged flow
carving out an emptiness
within this near ghost of a soul
waiting in unacknowledged darkness,
while asking for a way to the light—

before waking in the softness
of morning at altitude.

Seals

Photo by Yiu011fit KARAALu0130Ou011eLU on Pexels.com

At the edge of a known world 

where sapphire sea meets an emerald surf

seals emerge in greeting 

just feet from where I stand.

I did discover an absolute

in a moment of childlike wonder:

All things thought unattainable,

never to be found--

perhaps, even undeserved--

exist in the joy

at the edge of the sea.

Golden Promises

Image courtesy of Shutterstock.com

golden promises 
shimmer in summer’s sunlight
somehow cozy now

think eternity 
somehow cozy, snuggled in
velvet lined starlight

as

earth turns toward fall
no comfort of faith 
within Fatima’s secrets
Moonwashed Weekly Prompt – Somehow-cozy – Moonwashed Musings (amanpan.blog)

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

Morning Coffee

video is my own (this little one ventures closer every morning)
the coolness of morning enters

it drifts into the veins

chills feeling for a time—

when the hummingbird perches

to drink the fresh sugar water

I made for her that morning,

I smile.

Cruelty of Spring

(Photo by Nicole Hester/The Tennessean via AP) courtesy of Journalrecord.com

 

April,

spring,

green,

a time of renewal,

life begins, grows,

days warm,

April, the month of poetry,

inspiration to be found

watching nature as she yawns,

stretches, rubs the winter’s sleep

from eyes closed against the cold—



Then why am I cold still

this April morning

as i sit

and sip

coffee

this fine sun warmed

April morning—



It is—

The three children of Covenant school,

The nineteen children of Robb Elementary,

The children,

The children—

All the children who knew terror

in the final moments of life.

All the children who live

now knowing the horror

of seeing classmates, bloodied, dead and dying

on the floor of a classroom.



This warm sun heralds spring’s return,

life’s renewal, the earth’s promise,

yet I can find no warmth.

Prism






Image is my own





washed clean





in orange sunsets





drenched by





lavender sunrises





so the dust





and the grime





can no longer





cling inside or out





of a me





freed, freed





of all of you





I am the prism





of beauty





I always was





yet never was





with you





 

	


	
	






	
	

		
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.





	


	
	






	
	

		
Winter’s Will
	


	

		

image courtesy of ALEX VASILYEV on wired.com





There is no understanding





how winter comes





for it comes in too many ways





at too many times





often when it shouldn’t





starting at the edges





creeping to the core





snatching away all the covers





driving out the flames





or





slowly, softly





almost tenderly





like a gentle, timid lover





will winter drift into days





as autumn delicately falls





little dip by little dip into winter’s icy arms





then a frozen world is made.





At times winter rides





with sword drawn





into spring





after life has begun





to wreck havoc on all things





green and growing,





make still all hearts feeling the flow of life begin,





at those times, winter rides





until sweated out





in the course of time.





Yet winter may freeze us solid





in the midsts of summer’s heatwaves





as we stand over gaping mouths of graves.





While some breathing in the hope of spring





as others live in winter’s black ice





suffering the bite of hunger and need





winter’s winter grows larger still





beyond Arctic, beyond talk of tundra,





or talk of some kind of permafrost—





but something too many know.





we will not end in fire





nor will we end in ice





in the end,





it will be the lukewarm breeze





of indifference,





the one to do us in.