Butterfly sipping on plum blossoms,
pink singing tree crowned
with a cloud of happy bees.
This morning,
an inch of powdery snow,
this afternoon,
sun has melted it in blue.
Spring loves its wild swings.
29 Saturday Apr 2023
Butterfly sipping on plum blossoms,
pink singing tree crowned
with a cloud of happy bees.
This morning,
an inch of powdery snow,
this afternoon,
sun has melted it in blue.
Spring loves its wild swings.
15 Saturday Apr 2023
The vultures have returned
from distant winter shelters,
their broad arms now stirring pale spring skies.
Between mesa and hilltop, there’s a valley
and her thighs cradle winds
soul-driven to buoy those dark ones,
to bring them in circles, mixing pollen and dust,
whisking insects far below
to petals low and wide.
The languages spoken meet human ears
only as whistle and snap,
but the Others, they carry conversations
over whole continents.
It can be seen in outstretched wings,
high in leafless cottonwoods,
of vultures at sunrise.
In silence, before the world wakens,
if we stand with the trees,
our bodies hear their words
and join in the call and response,
without thought, instinct recalled.
12 Saturday Nov 2022
Chittering morning birds pull me from the page–
eyes move from word toward sound,
where their light hopping feet bring me to flight
from bare branch, through 17 degree air,
to bark-covered lattice above the front door.
Frost, like gold flakes, falls from their trail in sunlight.
They have such great conversations.
01 Thursday Sep 2022
Apples are falling from their trees
spreading sweetness to the ants and the air.
I keep wishing for a horse to feed them to as we walk along.
Skunk fans her tail at my approach
and waddles into the weeds through a living cave of stem and leaf.
Sun holds to the distant side of the mountain
but warmth and light are rising.
Laughing as I scuff along, there’s coyote–
she’s wandered into the domestic zone
to sniff things out, yes, and to stir up every dog
in the neighborhood.
Yip yip and garble bark grff.
The graveyard rests out past the hollyhocks,
walking by each day settles me.
Raw, unpainted crosses, tilted
and cracked.
Rounded mounds of earth, peaceful
and heavy.
Can’t help but smell autumn this morning.
06 Friday May 2022
How long ago were we taught
to fight with our own selves,
to oppress and bind ourselves–
to be better, to be nice, to fit in, to be worthy?
To be successful, accomplished, competent?
Parents aren’t to blame, they were taught the same.
Go back and back and back. . .
and back.
It served something much larger
for us to bash down our own beating hearts and bright,
lit up eyes.
We needn’t be oppressed from out there when
we do it first from the inside.
Go to a job (what a weird requirement)
at the outlet mall so you can live.
Nursing survival fears, real and imagined,
keeps us very busy–and useful–
to systems that cut us from the land,
from the divine,
from one another.
Life has never been, will never be, easy
but isolation,
disconnection,
meaninglessness
are the poisons we serve our own bodies and minds
when chasing and begging for pieces of paper.
Currency.
And the fear of not having enough, or
losing what we have,
ties us in
to beliefs and habits and conditioning
that make television the closest thing
to mother’s milk that we can reach.
Or the bottle.
Nothing is wrong with you. Nothing is wrong with me.
Nothing is wrong with us.
But something is wrong with wedging our precious selves
into tiny spaces, tiny perspectives, tiny versions
at the breath-stealing expense
of our own inborn radiance.
21 Thursday Apr 2022
Wind blows a chorus in the mountains.
I’d forgotten how the trees sing in rounds,
sometimes whispering,
sneaking a song, suddenly, behind you
then switching far out in front, down the hardscrabble
with its abundant life of stone and tiny leafings,
scales and flitting feathers.
I wonder about the songs echoed
from those not swishing needles and branches.
What part of the rondo do our human ears miss?
How sweet to offer our voices back
to the heart of the mountain
by joining in its steep and generous sound.
11 Friday Mar 2022
What is to come
with such violence in the world?
Old as existence, violence arises and
falls away, erupts and leaves ash heaps,
sterility, an airlessness that waits,
waits,
waits
until seeds able to withstand–and bring Life–
from extremes
begin anew.
But the cycles can not, will not, alter
until every one of us, each one unto themselves,
can reach the threshold of greeting
the violence with and in
ourselves.
Begin, begin, as those stalwart seeds,
to come consciously into relationship
with the most difficult impulses we humans possess,
one by one by one, together,
let us move into wisdom’s ability
to navigate this earthly realm
beautifully and whole.
12 Saturday Feb 2022
Somehow it is February and 79 degrees.
What a wonder.
We have entered a new world, mostly of our own making.
Turning back is a fantasy holding some together,
imagining it isn’t happening holding others.
Our earth mama talks with us, through us, always–
she shows more loudly by the year
the honest consequences of our actions.
Birds sing loudly on the other side of the open door,
more kinds than usually heard in chorus.
They bathe bathe bathe and chitter, twinkling songs..
A magical day,
yet strange.
Prayer flies through the open door that we all learn to listen,
listen and praise, find ourselves on our knees ready
for change that serves Life.
13 Monday Dec 2021
The storm is making noisy mouths of the shingles this morning,
and pom-poms of the pine’s branches.
Rain beads the panes,
droplets meet socially, gather in their weight
and river down, down towards wet ground.
A limy glow. Needles sticking long on fence, on chair,
all throughout lavender’s hair.
Yesterday at this time crows were dancing in sunrise light,
pink orange, sorbet swirl of clouds,
save one:
She sat still atop a black fir, staring.
Our four eyes, in settled bodies, soaked in the welcoming arms
of our rising Sun–
now, She knows how to begin a day.
04 Thursday Nov 2021
Tiny frog visits
at the threshold.
Years have passed since she has come.
As much time feels past since this rain.
Her throat pulses against my finger,
our skins touching,
and the gold lining her eyes gleams.
I admire her form,
the soft wetness.
We are utterly different.
Warning her of the dangers of my swinging front door
I walk her to the altar
where water and succulent,
kind attention and beauty gather.
She knows her way around.
With thanks, we part.
Until her return
in the following young morning.