I could rake these stones.
Free these tiny weeds
which my feeble fingers fumble to grab
and tweeze out.
Yes, with a rake,
I could disturb the harmony
of stones, free the weeds—
But no.
I have had enough of stones.
I’ve enough of their weight
placed upon me.
I’ve carried the tonnage of stone
from place to place,
lived under it,
barely breathing through years,
lived decades encased within a sarcophagus
of other’s demands and expectations,
all shattered now in lovely shards
left in the distance behind me.
No, I will leave these stones undisturbed.
They will not take up my time.
There are other ways to weed,
and should the weeds take the stones,
there is beauty to be found in the wildness of weeds.
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
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.
It is the time
of grey skies
and dead brown grass
along the roadsides.
The time when the trees
are seen shivering,
their limbs quivering in their nakedness.
When even many of the evergreens drip down
brown, bloodied from the lethal knife wounds
of a sharpened frenzied freeze
as they sag into their deaths.
Yes, it is that time of year
when I yearn
for the green of spring,
for limbs to wrap myself within,
for a renewal of promises
I once longed to make.
The time of year
when I empty forty years
of myself.
Each new year brings
Now this garden grief
Nourished by regret
Each year, this day, here—
Standing, kneeling, sitting—I
Spend tears, words, wishes
All meaningless now,
In the barren garden grief
Flowers never bloom
Seven years gone now--
Nothing roots, though it has tried,
In the garden grief inside
Caught in the evening downpour,
I am washed clean of summer.
Summer’s red rock, red dirt dreams
Sluiced from me with this autumnal drenching.
Morning greets me with a cool hand
Of sunshine upon my brow.
Autumn whispers of a harvest
Under skies of bluest topaz.
A clear, clean, honest reaping
In days yet to be had.
She will never fall to earth again
After soaring among the stars,
The planets a blur. No.
No. She will never swim
In the deepest oceans,
Cavorting with dolphins and whales. No.
No. Never will her soul fly,
Brushing shoulders with angels,
Their wings touching upon her face. No.
No. Never these things.
Never these dangerous things again.
Never allowing illusions to gain sway. No.
No. She will plant her feet firmly in the ground.
Her heart cemented in her chest. Yes.
Yes. That once mighty waterfall
Has slowed to a trickle
As there no longer exist
Any waterfall wishes.
Haunting seen
In darkening clouds
Of chrysalis dreams
Where wanting,
Where desiring,
Haunt seen
Cease existing--
In this capturing
No ring
pierced through
Butterfly wings
Dripping still
From newly emerging
Dreams not tended.
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