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?
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.
On this February day when
chaos seems to be the norm,
I stepped out onto my deck
and was caught unaware by
yellow and purple crocuses
blooming in the raised wooden
box. And then, another gift.
Daffodil shoots by the mailbox.
“To expect the unexpected
shows a thoroughly modern
intellect,” so said Oscar Wilde.
I say “Look for and embrace
surprise if you want to keep
your sanity in this crazy world.
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.
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!
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.
untangling the web 