“To dream of the universe is to know that we are small and brief as insects, born in a flash of rain and gone a moment later. We are delicate and our world is fragile.”
In June of 2019, I went with my family to New York City. (Remember when we could travel to other cities and visit museums?) While there, I spent a couple of hours in the American Museum of Natural History and found myself lingering in the Hall of Biodiversity which presents the abundance of life on earth and the factors that threaten it. …
The road we walk
ends in a ring,
a quiet path
rays from it,
leads us to where
spring air is singing.
the dog and I,
we each sniff
in our own way.
Overhead the just-barely
full of hopeful birds.
Down low, a tapestry
of new greens,
the tracks of small paws
in black earth,
yesterday’s rain water
in the hollows.
We move on this way,
inhaling scents, and
approach a large puddle,
see shimmering movement,
Eastern Black Swallowtails.
As we near, they light into air, wings flash black and…
A dream of awakening from a loved one’s emotional abuse
In the dream there were rooms
I had not seen before,
or forgot were there.
(You know, the kind that are
discovered in dreams, and you think,
“They have always been there!
“How did I not know?” Then feel
the wonder of them, astonishment,
expanding possibility . . .)
These dream rooms were filled with things
I began to joyfully sort, prepare
for giving, making room for others.
Each of these rooms:
an exploration, a new country,
my new offering.
And then, in the dream, I remembered: a tempest and…
A peaceful transaction in the woodpile
A flocculent mass of dog hair
pulled from the comb, and laid
casually behind the woodpile.
The tufted titmouse
rising triumphantly to log summit,
mouth stuffed, bristling out
like a large dun-colored beard,
proudly hopping to and fro before flying
to make ready a warm nest
for its fragile and spotty little eggs.
The quickened bird made no consideration
that its plush wealth had blossomed
from a beast with bitey teeth
who could crush and swallow
delicate, naked hatchlings.
The energetic titmouse follows its own springtime nature, which is right now a mission to…
When I was a little girl you took me to forage.
Embraced within the long pulse
of warm summer morning,
we went together, carrying empty coffee cans,
strung like pails, to the brambles.
You showed me how to choose and pick,
encircling each ripe berry with your fingers,
gently coaxing it to fall into your hand,
rolling it into the can with a quiet plink.
You picked another, tossed it into your mouth
and made that “surprised-dad” look,
brows up, eyes wide, mouth drawn and pursed,
I followed with a giggle,
tasted the goodness.
Thorns bit into my skin and…
A poem of going deep
I dig down
notice each stratum
various shades of soil
from which things may
or may not grow well
taken altogether in layers
they have sufficed,
some are rich, nutrient dark
alive with small beneficial creatures
I use my bare hands,
I pat them firm enough,
claw at fallen dirt,
see an impossible blue
at the bottom
reach down, grasp
gently, there they come
a dense cluster of
I pull them up brush them off and light touches each fleshy petal, tangled roots keep coming as I lift the…
Sometimes words fall gently, soaking
into me like a blessing kind of rain.
Or they rise up, unbidden, like clear springs
bubbling from a cleft of rock.
Into quiet and sleep and dreams, they flow.
They quicken with waking,
when the sun’s fresh yolk shines
through low branches, sparkling the dew.
They collect in streams
during the most ordinary of freedoms:
walking the dog, driving on familiar roads,
chopping soup vegetables, waiting as they simmer . . .
Suddenly, the door opens, and a tide flows in, carrying words like the stones and bones and feathers and streaks of…
Memories of summer childhood
I am from the smell of life in moist morning soil,
while dew still shines from the green
I am from old coffee cans, dad-strung like pails,
carried to forage earthy gifts
I am from the bramble, sturdy canes,
long thorny runners, summergreen and tangled
I am from those raspberries, plump and plinking into tin,
each juicy drupelet containing one hard, little seed
I am from the old tin cup that brims with sweet spring water
bubbling from the rock down by the willow
I am from the penduling rope swing in the maple, where the…
A waning gibbous and rising sun
share the same sky,
warming light burnishes
leafless branches golden rose
lift toward heaven
still winter, morning cold
the birds, quiet, landing and flying
leaning into backyard feeders
intent to sustain tiny heartbeats
a little while longer
and they will burst in full chorus
the maples tell us,
with red flower buds
formed in late summer
swelling along thin winter arms
upturned in supplication
the sap within
in these sun shining
running sweet rivers
in woody vessels
up and down
into hopeful buckets,
Thanks to ScienceDuuude for…