Your cosmos floating
at road’s edge adds
color to my day in
more ways than one.
Thank you, thank you!
Photo by takamasa okano on Unsplash
To Whoever Planted These Flowers
Autumn Morning
On a perfect autumn morning
when the air is clean and crisp,
mist slowly moves toward the light,
blurring the mirror image of trees
glimpsed on the surface of the pond.
The Hawk’s Cry
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Staying Sane
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.
A Trip to Goodwill
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.
A Tender Moment
For the first time ever,
he asked her to play
just for him. She began
with Chopin. Stretched
out on the sofa, he
listened to the music.
As her fingers danced
on the keys, fluid and
efficient, gentle and
powerful, tears began
to flow down his cheeks.
That beautiful moment,
when a grandmother
evoked such vulnerability
in her 30+ grandson, that
moment suffused with
exquisite tenderness and
joy, must be held tightly,
an antidote to a world
where violence and meanness
has become the norm.
(This is for my friend Carol, an accomplished pianist and wonderful woman, wife, counselor, friend, mother, grandmother, and great grandmother.)
The Last Lily
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.
We Must Hope
When hatred and retribution
are the order of the day,
out front my lilies bloom
in red, orange, yellow, and peach.
When university presidents are
pushed out for what they believe,
my dog’s fur remains soft
and her ears ever so silky.
When people yearning for
a better life are arrested,
my air conditioner keeps us
cool on a 100+ degree day.
While people are dying in
Gaza, Iran, Israel, and Ukraine,
I see turtles sunning themselves
at the edge of the pond.
When past presidents
are called “stupid,”
children are laughing and
playing around the world.
When vaccines are deemed
unnecessary and harmful,
doctors and nurses continue
to speak up for their efficacy.
When sycophants bow down
to a bully of a leader,
People peacefully protest
at “No Kings” rallies.
At this distressing time
in our history, we must
hold on to hope and beauty,
and speak truth to power.
Dandelions in the Median Strip
There you were,
wild and free,
tilting your heads
to the sun, swaying
with the breeze in
a sea of yellow,
delighting me each
time I drove by.
Today you are gone.
The blades have
sliced you to the ground.
Some saw you as a weed,
to me you were sheer joy.
Ahimsa
Tucked between mother
and father, five little goslings
slid in the pond and paddled
away in one clump of feathers.
Serene on the surface,
frantic underneath at our
approach though we meant
no harm. Even so, the parents,
in this scary world, deduced
precautions were necessary
to ensure their offspring
were safe. Is this not what all
sentient beings want?
untangling the web 