A poem must be read aloud to
be fully loved.
Don’t believe me?
Then try reading
Mary Oliver’s Wild Geese or
Wendell Berry’s
Peace of Wild Things.
Let the words roll
off your tongue, savor each word, phrase,
embrace them all.
Now go find a
new poem to love.
Enfolded in Blue Ridge Mountains,
I sit and watch
puffs of soft clouds
smoothing ridges
of ancient greenstone worn down by
millions of years.
Pink and purple
crown vetch spills down
steep hillsides while goldfinches bounce
from bloom to bloom
and hawks get a
free ride on the
currents hidden to human eye.
A nature hike
bares dew shining
on jewelweed,
tiny striped Wintergreen, remnants
of the chestnut,
once matriarch,
erased by blight,
shards of quartz pushed up by spring thaw,
left by natives
camped by creek side
when land belonged
to no one, was shared with creatures
who, with the earth,
provided warmth,
food, shelter, tools.
The earthy smell of birth and death
— strong, rich, ancient —
is missed by those
hurrying past.
I close my eyes, hear a symphony
of sounds, unmarred
by human din,
pulse of the earth.
The Blue Ridge beckons and I heed her call.
A community of wild geese
splits the warm air
with their grating
calls, loud, harsh, clear.
In a V they fly, taking turns
leading, never
leaving a sick
comrade behind.
They travel farther and faster
than one lonely
goose on its own,
teaching us all.
A faint rumbling in the distance,
some trembling leaves,
branches dancing,
a door banging,
as unseen forces amble east
through the county.
Lily faces
turn upward
as rain swishes on padded feet,
gutters gurgle,
wood chimes chatter
the earth gives thanks.
Day is ending,
darkness descending,
work is done,
body weary,
mind is spent,
eyes are heavy.
Elixir of sleep,
refresh me now.
Hundreds dead, newspaper headlines shout.
Shocking images,
grieving mothers,
fathers, sisters
appear on TV news each night,
while we destroy
a Western state
to practice bombing.
When will the voices of reason
break through hatred,
the ancient dance
of destruction?
When will we embrace others as
partners, humans
on the same journey
of love and life?
When
will
it
stop?
What
can
we
do?
BHW
Palest peach petals soft as fur,
spidery arms
flowing to earth.
Breathe in , breathe out.
Sun filtered by greens, browns, and grays,
shapely green leaves
whispering low.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Jasmine vines wrapping and twisting,
inward, outward.
Tinkle of chimes.
Breathe in, breathe out.
BHW
If you open your eyes, your ears
right here, right now,
in this moment,
stillness drops in.
Always there, the grace of the earth,
fluffs of clouds in
a crooked line,
a gurgling stream,
whisper of leaves as critters stir,
flutter of wings,
musical calls.
Breath in, breath out.
To be heard is a sacred gift
rarely given,
seldom received,
often required.
Is there anything more precious
than knowing you
have been heard, held
in holy space?
Have you ever felt the embrace,
the power of
a stillness that
can make you whole?
BHW
Where do I find you,
girl lost in life’s tangled web,
girl with open heart,
robbed of childhood, married young.
Loosen the threads, let them go!
Reclaim your true self,
break the patterns that hold you,
step out of the web and live.
Time is running out!
Forget what could have been and
focus all on what can be.
untangling the web 