Tag: Nature

The Stag

image is my own


As I sit at my desk, I watch the does scale the stucco wall.
Their leaps never fail to dazzle.
Next, they stretch their necks to grab and eat the seed pods from the trees. 
Here, in the foothills of the Sandias, this sight wrings a sigh.
Then I see him, outside the wall and to the left, 
watching the does. 
He is large but nearly hidden behind the tall Chamisa waving in the breeze. 
His head would be a prize to any hunter.  
His antlers tall and wide, many pointed. 
He steps away from the cover of the Chamisa.  
What I thought a waving branch— an arrow lodged in his left shoulder.
He is the stag the neighbors have posted about—
The one they say will eventually succumb to the wound.
Reflexively, I rub my own left shoulder 
once frozen still from scar tissue 
until broken loose years ago by a medical procedure
but now occasionally aches. 
How I wish I could help this buck. 
Remove the arrow, apply some healing balm,
Let him recover here, feasting on seed pods, before sending him on his way 
only a scar to ache every once in a while.


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

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.

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.

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.

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





 

	


	
	






	
	

		
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.