that's mrs. mediocrity to you

This is my favorite tree. Actually, I think of it as my tree, though it is nowhere near to being mine, it being some 30 miles away and all.

Still, I have claimed it, at least in my heart. It stands in the middle of a farm field. I’ve always wondered how that comes to be, one lone tree left guarding all those seedlings, offering the best perch for miles around.

I’ve never gone to sit beneath this tree, though I would like to. I’m fairly certain the farmer wouldn’t appreciate me trampling his crop, and so I resist.

But I sit there in my mind, enjoying its shade and wondering how it came to have that finger pointing straight for the sky. Secretly, I’m glad I don’t know. Secretly, I know it means my tree is a survivor. It’s much larger than it appears to be in this picture, and I want to know the stories of the years that formed this anchored, ancient witness. Stories of hope and disaster, good years and bad years, floods and drought. I get the sense that if ever there was a tree that needed hugging, it is this tree.

I bet it remembers every Spring.

Scarred but not broken. Standing tall while bending with the wind. Rooted in one place as time marches on.

Yes, this is my tree.

I’ve got this quilt and this basket and this book, and if you squint a little, you can see me there, whiling away the afternoon.

spring comes
on the day
when i rise
to the surface
of the pool
that was winter

gasping for air.

the sun
warms my face
as i pull
myself up
hand over hand
clinging to vine

and veracity.

the grey ghost
regrets his decision
to give up
the reins
a week early,
but in the forest

the vulture

smiles.

.

.

.

.

::

this post is part of:

the scintilla project. see more here.

Today’s prompt: Show a part of {your} nature that you feel you’ve lost.
Can you get it back? Would it be worth it?.

and

 dVerse poets Open Link Night, join us!

::

::

don’t stop the rest

from growing.

::

Yesterday was a miasma of grey, and this morning I woke up to a sugar-coated winter wonderland, filled with the fresh scent that only comes with a newly-fallen snow.

I watch the sun rise from behind a crosshatch of bare branches, and a bluebird lands on a snow-capped birdhouse.

Just as quickly, he is gone.

By this afternoon, the glittery blanket will have melted back into earth. Just beneath the surface everything is shifting, changing, washing itself clean.

Everything in this life is fleeting, happiness and sadness, light and dark, sunshine and lilies. It all cycles through in its own good time, despite our best attempts to crack the code that will slow things down, or speed them up.

A lily will open when it is ready to fill the air with perfume. The sun will shine when it has finished talking to the clouds, your heart will find something to smile about when the weeping has run its course.

These are the truths that I have learned.

This morning I stand here breathing in the scent of snow and lily, trying to hold onto them even as I know that I must exhale.

But for a moment, my lungs are filled with light and love and aliveness.

And, of course, that is enough.

::

your next step,

but let your heart

be your guide.

::

(do you see the heart?)

This morning, I sat at my kitchen table with a journal and a pencil. Morning pages, so to speak, the result of a table that was cleared, sunlight glinting just so off the surface, and the time and space to savor a cup of tea, a blank page, the scratch of a pencil.

Outside my tiny kitchen window, the one I always wish was a big bay picture window but never will be, the birds were having their breakfast. A pair of cardinals sat together on a branch for a moment, winter lovers in shades of heart. Chickadees flitted in and out, always busy, always happy, I think the word flibbertigibbet was invented just for them. And as I sat there, writing, watching, writing, I heard the alarm caw of a crow. One of my crows, the three that come every morning for breakfast in the driveway, two on the ground, eating, one posing as lookout in the tree overhead.

Moments later, a large flock of starlings (isn’t it early for starlings?) landed in the hedgerow, chirping and fluttering and fidgeting and then moving on just as quickly as they arrived, in a great flurry of feather and branches and sunlight.

My naughty kitten was pretending to meander down the driveway.

All of this in just a few moments, but enough to make me get up to find my camera. And yes, of course, when I returned, there were no birds in sight. And so, more scratching, more tea, more listening. To a quiet that is never silent, the hum of the refrigerator behind me, the sound of pencil, and there, again, the caw of crow.

They had returned, my three musketeers, two down, one up, always waiting, watching, working. My sentinels of morning.

I snapped many shots of the watchman, but this was my favorite, the dropping down to earth, after deciding it was safe, to feast on seed.

A moment in time that happens a dozen times every day, but only once in all of eternity.

I love that.

she crawls on her belly
through a barbed-wire world
eating hope and fire
as they drip down to earth
from all kinds of secret places
in the sky

her life is lived
in moments of peace
and she lies on her belly
in a bed made of mud
as her fingers form clay
into bowls of tomorrow

she collects
heart-shaped stones
curves sticks
into smiles
and empties fossils
from her pockets
at sundown

her tears
mix with seed
to grow
night-blooming vines
in shades of lavender
and purple
to be braided
into bracelets
for the moon

she has words
as companions
and silver
for protection
and if you
put your ear
to the ground
you can listen
to her heart

beat

.

.

.

this post is part of dVerse poets Open Link Night join us!

::

sometimes

the things in life

we think

we should be

most afraid of

are not at all

the things

we need

to be

afraid of.

::

::

follow your

heart.

::

on this night of full moon and cold rain and extra innings, cozy on the couch in wool socks with a book in my hand and a mind that keeps floating to other places.

i let it float and breathe in the quiet, the quiet that is never really soundless, because silence always has something to say, especially just exactly when you think it has finally fallen asleep. there will be a murmur, a sigh.

a question will come creeping up to tug on your sleeve and invite itself to the party. and how can you refuse a question? and then before you know it, the room is full of them, huddled in groups or standing alone, some sitting on the floor just looking at you, others mumbling in voices barely audible.

it’s okay though, because lately, i’m just plain tired of all the answers. everyone’s got one, or two, or four or seventeen. all jumping up and down with their hand raised high in the air and shouting, “pick me, pick me!” it really starts to wear a girl out.

and so i am content just to sit here, pondering, wondering, wandering. listening to whispers.

a little while ago, i went to the back door and smiled up at the moon. i turned and walked back to where i was sitting, and for a second, i thought she might follow me inside. i see her there now, hovering just outside the window.

but we both know that she’s not here to see me. we both know that she lives on questions.

i’ll send them all out to her in a little bit, just as soon as silence stops with the heavy sighs and the pouting.

and then i’ll give it a hug and tuck it in for the night,
with a kiss on the forehead for good measure.

because that moon looks really hungry.