In a wide-brimmed hat
and yellow jacket,
head down, hands on
lap, she sat on the bench
by the lake surrounded
by trees just beginning
to show their colors.
Was she meditating,
was she praying or
was she just being?
We’ll never know.
Luna and I walk behind
her, not wanting to
disturb her moment
of peace and solitude.
Photo created by AI!
After a cleanout frenzy today,
we gave away the wooden blocks,
the ones kept in the big wicker
basket on the coat closet floor,
the ones all three of you used
to build bridges and houses and
roads, the ones that little boy
with the chubby fingers ran
his matchbox cars over, the ones
his sisters used to build towers
and let him knock them down,
setting off infectious laughter.
It was bittersweet to give them
away, but none of you wanted them.
I would like to think some lucky child
will be thrilled when his mother snaps
them up at the Goodwill on Broad.
That child will not see the fingerprints
of our children, grandchildren, great
nieces and nephews or mine,
but they are all there and hold
so many memories of those
precious times when you were
all so young and full of joy.
Photo by Valery Fedotov on Unsplash
The feel of my own sheets.
Soft pillows without
a rubbery covering.
Luna curled beside me.
Blessed quiet with no
beeping machines, no
wakeups at 3 a.m. for
chest x-rays, or a roommate
with the TV blaring.
No tangle of tubes and
no more poking and prodding.
A daughter who took over
communication with family
and friends. A son who experienced
the trauma of post-surgery complications
without alarming me. The Betty Brigade
bringing delicious food each day.
A husband who changed
the sheets. Sleep, blessed sleep!
Daughters and granddaughter
changing my bandages with
calmness and professionalism.
Quiet visits from my circle of women.
And the list continues to grow.
Oh, do we ever take for
granted the small blessings
of this life. I thought I was
aware of them but this
“unwelcome visitor” has
seared their importance
into my very being and
I am thankful for that.
(But not for the “unwelcome visitor!”)
Enveloping darkness,
and then slowly behind
a bank of clouds a
half circle of light
peeks out and grows
into a full sphere,
signaling another
blue-sky day.
Barely a soul in sight,
walking toward the
rising sun, we make
the first prints in the
sand. On our left
seagrass swaying, on
our right crashing
waves and seagulls.
This is creation.
On a dusty trail framed
by woods, there is a split.
One can choose to go
to the right or the left.
In the triangle formed by
the split are the ruins
of an old log cabin. The
stone chimney still stands
tall and a stone foundation
outlines the room. All
else is gone with no trace
of its former inhabitants.
I wonder who lived there
and when? Was it a
family or perhaps a
bearded hermit who
loved his solitude and
discouraged strangers
from approaching? Or
perhaps there was a
girl who ran wild and
barefoot in the spring
and summer marveling
at the wild flowers and
learning which plants
soothed a stomach ache
or a sore throat or brought
a fever down. I’d like to
think her parents whiled
the dark nights of winter
away telling her tales
about times past. Perhaps
there was a traveling librarian
who came by on her mule
and loaned her books to read.
I picture her curled up
by that old stone fireplace
at night totally lost in the
words on the page. What
happened to her? Did she
grow up to be a medicine
woman or maybe a traveling
librarian herself spreading
her love for books to other
young girls. I will never know
who the inhabitants of that
old cabin were or when they
were there, but my imagination
enables me to make up a
story that lights up my soul.
You dash from the fir tree
to the sideview mirror
of the big red truck by
the lake. You hover, steal
a look, then flit away,
in your excitement,
leaving a memento of
yourself on the door.
On and on you peek
and peck, then dash
away to a branch.
Are you really that
vain or do you see
a potential partner,
shying away when
she gets too close?
I wonder how long it
will take before you
see your error, or will
it end when the fishermen
take out and load their
boats and drive away.
In that moment will
you lament the loss
of a possible love or will
you recognize that you
were seeing yourself?
I love this poem by my fellow blogger LuAnne Holder and hope you do too.
It is reprinted with her permission.
Posted on by LuAnne Holder
I ask
When do I begin?
When is it time to stop?
When will we slow climate change?
When will there be peace?
Yet, When implies a future
I should live here Now
In the Now I can’t predict
if a third world war may come or
if climate change will annihilate the planet or
if AI will take over human life
Now allows me, however, to
take steps to protect the environment,
spread lovingkindness,
be my own kind of activist,
help others Now
A doom and gloom attitude
is not being here Now;
such an attitude
is being here When
When hasn’t come yet, though,
there’s still time right Now
Like ballerinas in a gentle breeze,
light green tendrils moving,
curving, swooping, dipping,
at one with the Universe,
with all matter and all beings,
part of the sacred circle of
starting at the end and
ending at the beginning,
filling my heart with hope,
rejoicing instead of weeping.
Photo by David Veksler on Unsplash
The earth was hushed
that morning and a light
snow was falling, uniting
ground and sky, the still
and the moving, brown and
white. Pine needles on the
path were covered by snow
highlighting an intricate
design like a fisherman’s net
or spider’s web, an encounter
between life and death.
The cosmos was showing off
its artistry in twisted bare
branches, in an ethereal
light on a skim of ice, in
things seldom observed.
Nature was sparking the
imagination with the
magnificence of creation
with no intention other
than to simply enchant.
On a cold morning
with thoughts scampering
in and through, words formed
and then forgotten,
Luna and I walked
and mused, then stopped and
paid attention. We
saw poetry on a
twig, in frost-covered
grass, and flashing off
a mallard’s green head.
We heard it in the
bird song, and sniffed it
in the sharp, clean air.
untangling the web 