By |

wet September,

grasses and trees adore you

I did as well — at first

now, I keenly await

the cool crisp of autumn,

winter’s hungry maw,

a grateful distant spring

By |

what color do I paint the rain

as it slides down a pane of glass?

how do I corral the wind

as it nestles in the boughs of a sycamore?

where do I unload the burdens

never asked or paid for?

why does the dark-eyed junco,

pecking scattered seeds on the ground,

forever make me smile?

By |

sketchbook renderings

a hard-covered novel

*

tending to flowers, soil & seed,

cuttings and snips of vibrant joy

*

images drawn & carved,

then patiently inked to paper

*

laptop & phone, untouched

for hours at a time

*

bliss that comes from doing,

rather than becoming undone

By |

~ written, with much admiration, after Mary Oliver

When did it happen?

“Long before I knew something like this could ever transpire.”

*

Where did it happen?

“In a forgotten place where soft-shell clams gather at dawn.”

* 

No, tell. Where did it happen?

“Where the sound of the sea rushes in to the wild chambers of the heart.”

*

What is your heart doing now?

“Oh, child. It longs so for you.”