A heron standing at
the edge of the pond
motionless as a
sculpture as we came
out of the woods.
We stopped, watched,
crept closer and closer.
With a sharp cry it
lifted its wings and
flew across the water
not wanting its
peace invaded by
us, the trespassers.
When each day brings
a new insult, a new
meanness, even attempts
to change our history,
I must lose myself
in the beauty of this
world, shield myself
from all the ugly actions,
even if for one brief moment.
the sweet-voiced young
man, cap on backwards,
body covered in tattoos,
came to the car, carried
in my donation. when I
told him I liked his tats,
he smiled and revealed
they told a story, his
story. a superhero on his
calf and a baby angel on his
biceps. first letters of his
brothers and sisters and
nieces and nephews on
his knuckles and more
stories on his neck.
the ankle monitor told
another tale, but I didn’t
inquire. we all have stories
that make us who we are.
some we share and some
we do not. before I left,
he said “I appreciate you.”
as I drove off, I sent an
appeal to the universe that
the remainder of his story
be as sweet as his voice.
In the morning, when
I open the door to see
what delights the day brings,
there you are, pale peach,
peeping up through pink
and yellow coneflowers
swaying in the soft breeze.
You are the last lily of summer,
not as delicate as the
graceful, lacy-edged one
or the one whose sunny
gold warmed my heart
or the one with fire-engine
red petals shouting for attention.
But now, there you are
bidding me farewell as your
leaves and stalk turn brown,
reminding me that beauty is
fleeting and that what lives
must always come to an end.
I would like to have one last
cycle of blooming before
my time is up, and then I will
make way for those who
will grow from my roots
and discover the beauty
that will sustain them
during their own lives.
Husband in front,
daughter in middle,
I behind as we walk.
Two dogs stopping
to sniff here and there.
Pines and fir trees
keep watch, lining
the path like sentinels.
Outside noise softened
by pine needles
on the ground.
Pollen everywhere.
A cherry tree
gently drops its
petals like snow
drifting down.
Redbuds and dogwoods
in their Easter finery,
purple clover popping
in the green grass.
Swings that make
music as we pump,
taking us back
to the forgotten
joys of childhood.
Two octogenarians, on a whim,
decided to cut back two hydrangeas,
he with loppers, she with clippers,
on a sunny day hinting of spring.
Ended up cutting back four hydrangeas,
a crepe myrtle without crepe “murder,”
an assortment of ferns and coral bells.
He stood on a chair but did not fall
and she reveled in crocuses moved
last year, blooming hellebores, and
budding Carolina jasmine climbing
the pergola. Afterwards there were
aches and pains, but souls were fed
by new life pushing through the dirt.
Good news mixed with bad today.
This morning, sadness and helplessness
overwhelm as the car radio blasts
the executive orders now in place.
And then…personal good news.
A CT scan that’s clear. I should be
happy, and I am thankful, but
when others are violently thrown
into turmoil and fear spreads,
how can I possibly be?
Sacred Moment
Sometimes we startle the
heron as she stands at the
end of the pond, and she
spreads her mighty wings
and flies away, afraid of
our company. Today I was
not present, not seeing,
but worrying about so
many things. And then,
from a hill above the
water, I saw her framed
between two bare trees,
tall, regal, motionless.
With no camera to record
the perfect photo, I was
disappointed …. but then
again, perhaps that one
sacred moment was only for
the heron, my dog, and me.
.
For just a few seconds
as we stood at the
end of the dock,
it was so very quiet
that I held my breath
and did not move.
Even the dragonfly
glided by soundlessly
and the geese were
hushed. Then the silence
was broken by a car’s hum
and the tree frogs’ calls.
But there was that one
moment when all was still.
A vanilla latté, a clean
CT scan, and a walk in
the neighborhood
with Luna at my side
makes my heart soar.
The sweet scent of
honeysuckle, the sight
of lavender, the throaty
whistle of a tufted titmouse,
the piercingly sweet call
of a Carolina wren,
a deer scampering
across the road,
hydrangeas adorned with
purple and white blossoms,
magnolias in full bloom,
and the delicate flowers
of coral bells stretching
heavenward. Orange
lilies screaming for
attention, purple clematis
rising up a mailbox,
the resinous smell of a
blue spruce, and last
of all, my climbing
hydrangea snaking its
way across the pergola
on the deck, blooming
like never before.
In the field by
the lake minuscule
purple blossoms
peek out among
tiny, stacked,
heart-shaped leaves,
all on one stalk.
Before today, I
saw only the
blossoms, but
this morning I
stopped, bent
down, and was
amazed. They
say you are a
weed, but edible
and medicinal.
To me, you
are a miracle.
untangling the web 