When the world makes no sense
and I am weary of its horrors,
I close my eyes and imagine myself
in the Blue Ridge Mountains, see
the purple and pinks of its sunrise,
the shadows in its ridges.
I imagine myself where Native
Americans once lived, respected
the earth and its animals, and
I see the wildflowers and plants
used by wise women as medicines.
I look up and see a hawk slowly
swooping in circles and floating
lazily among the clouds. My
body relaxes and my soul is fed.
There is this:
Another shooting by
an angry young man,
bombs falling in Ukraine,
more books banned,
a decision reversed by
men who have never
been pregnant,
acts of hate increasing,
and a budget that
cannot be settled by
pontificating politicians.
And then there is this:
On a cool morning
gentle rain is falling,
soft moss surrounds
an old tree in the woods,
a magnolia blossom
graces a tree on the
side of the road, and
the wood thrush’s throaty
voice calls among
other birds twittering.
untangling the web 