it’s easy to miss
all those tiny trapped wishes
held aloft in tight spots and spaces
holding breath and
harboring hope
or at least something
resembling optimism
fragile
diaphanous
ethereal
that’s what you think
when you see them there
hanging on for dear life or
shuddering in the slightest breeze
just waiting to be set free
when in truth
they are stronger
than you
.
.
.
This past week was the first week-long vacation I have taken in the summer in years.
It felt like I would never get everything done in time to get there, to “time-off,” to the choice of doing nothing and everything.
But I made it, and there it was, a week spread out before me waiting to be filled with family and laughter and gypsy living.
And free time.
Which of course, is never really free. But there is something to be said for having no agenda, for simply rolling along with the hours, come what may.
Reading in the shade of tall, tall pines for most of an afternoon. Morning tea before a campfire. Using the moon as your night light.
Filling time with less than instead of too much.
While I was away, this tiny cucumber grew large enough to be harvested. Life went on without me here to watch its progress.
Just like always.
I haven’t picked it yet, but I still have two days to bask alongside it in the glow of the sun.
Most likely, I will spend them with a book in hand.
And lazy, leisurely dinners filled with the fruits of my labor.
It’s always, always, good to be home.
in a forest
of susans
sipping nectar
at dusk
and dancing
in the memory
of moonlight’s
shadow
.
of course,
you’re
invited
.
when what i want
is the chaos of doubt
and you
you hide behind
that smokescreen
of birdsong
and pretty sky
where blue
is the color
of everything
but purple
is my favorite
and
three
small planes
crisscross clouds
like geese heading
to triumvirate ponds
while two
grasshoppers vie
for one green leaf
and black eyed susans
force canned laughter
onto the stage
but
the catbird
its very name
an oxymoron
perches high
and watches
a storm roll in
grey squared
in one blind
eye
This morning the world is fresh and green and sparkling in the way that only comes after an all-night rain. I can practically hear the flowers and trees sighing in relief. The birds are singing extra loudly, the colors all look more vibrant, the breeze is especially soft.
I sat outside last evening and watched the clouds fill the sky. They did not come rolling in, these clouds, but rather they crept, inch by inch, slowly, quietly, and without anger.
I sat and listened to the stillness, a sleeping cat in the chair next to me, a notebook in my lap, and there was nowhere else to be, nothing else to do, no one needing my attention.
The golden hour, when daylight shifts and shadows lengthen.
Another day ending, another night beginning, life cycling its way through the hours that always refuse to be counted. Tallied up by things accomplished, things to be done, lists and goals and wants and needs and never enough.
Except, it was enough. In that hour, there was an eternity.
I watched a grey lace curtain draw itself across the sun. I watched those shadows pale and disappear. Chiaroscuro became blur and faded into dusk.
I watched everything, and nothing.
A green heron flapped its wings through my line of sight, silently heading back to its nest for the night.
A dragonfly landed on the table near my arm.
Two grasshoppers spun past in a mysterious dance.
Barn swallows swooped through the air like bats.
Everything. Nothing.
Everything.
The shape of time.
the butterfly effect
is the quintessential cause
of chaos
we cannot stop living
and so
we keep dying
time waits for us to look away
however briefly
to add tattoos to our skin
hope keeps us going
just long enough to walk into a room
filled with hopelessness
a snake sheds its skin as it grows
and glides into
a larger version of itself
mother nature’s patterns and
illusions only make sense
if you’re a cloud
refuse to look away
refuse to cry uncle
refuse to be broken
for just now
another set of wings
emerges
from a dried-husk brittle
cocoon
translucent
blue and brilliant
flying home
…….
….
.
but there are birds and streaky clouds
(cirrus, i suppose, they look like streaks to me)
butterflies that flutter
and this robin singing for his supper
soft white flowers to become purple berries
food for bluebird, mockingbird and jay
bees and bees and bees
and grasshoppers by the dozen
(if you listen carefully, you can hear them munch)
roses always vying for the center of attention
a lazy cat sleeping in the best patch of sun
a swallow peeping as he swirls and twirls
no, there are no words
only life.
the rules of karma
are hard to follow
…….so much is unintentional
…….and yet, pain is caused
…….i never kill spiders
…….but stay away from me
…….if you’re a fly
…….that hardly seems fair
…….i am biased
…….despite all attempts
…….at magnanimity
i sit here in this garden
i pull weeds that want to grow
i displace ants and snails
…….simply striving to survive
…….we all play god
…….in our own small way
bending rules
breaking promises
…….forgiving
…………forgetting
……………..pretending
…….awards are given
…….for best posture
…….stand tall
…….reach for the sky
…………offer penance
……………..for a pittance
……………..next time,
……………..you will soar
