Sheltered Beneath the Pines

Sheltered beneath the pines,

I hear a voice calling.

            First the sound of breath,

                        becoming a moan,

                                    to a cry,

                                                to a sigh,

                                                            to silence.

Captivated, I listen

            again to the breath,

                        the moan,

                                    the cry,

                                                the sigh,

                                                            silence.

Is that the wind I hear

or the song of the trees?

A song of sorrow or joy,

            of loss or ecstasy,

                        wind stroking branches

                                    carrying seed aloft.

I am answered with silence,

            my body embraced by wind.

                        One exists only

                                    in the arms of the other

                                                like wind in tree’s song.

Stepping Outside

Stepping outside, escaping

the chaos of day,

I cross into the dark

sanctum of the night.

Enclosed within its black veil

the whirlwind stills,

agitation falls away

leaving only peace.

Certainly not quiet,

in the flashlight beam bugs dance

to the love song of the toads

trilling and croaking.

A bear lumbers through the brush,

coyotes howl in the distance,

this is their territory,

we are but interlopers.

An oak branch bumps my head,

I trip over its root,

a June bug collides with me

crossing its path.

Oh, to be one with the night,

at home within this realm,

instead of a trespasser

in my own domain.

We are but visitors

of darkness as with the light,

our footprints left behind,

wash away with rain.

One day we will be welcomed

into darkness, at home

growing roots with the oak,

flying with the June bugs.

After a Storm

After a storm, air swims of worms

struggling from wet earth to breathe.

Amphibious fragrance fills ones

nostrils raised like a dog catching

a whiff of what passed before.

Awakening connections

to the primitive soul that danced

in the rain with head raised high

catching drops on a parched tongue,

tasting life’s sweet nectar.

Heeding the siren’s call to

return to the sea to swim amidst

creatures who shy from the stranger

that raises its head from the surf

to breathe the scent of moist earth.

Scraps of Paper

Scraps of paper

blown on the wind,

land to drift on

the glassy pond.

They are rescued

from the water

like sacred scrolls

treasure maps.

Birch bark layers

curl in my hands,

white to tan skins

vented to breathe.

Without words,

secret messages,

or directions,

they tell a tale.

Of a canoe,

skimming across

a glassy pond to

the pull of paddles.

A living poem,

breathing through bark,

a Paper Birch’s

legacy.

                                             Mothers Rise at Night

Mothers rise at night                                                                     The moon rises at night

listening for their                                                                            with a gleam of light

children’s calls.                                                                               on the dark horizon.

            Mothers rise at night                                             The moon rises at night

            hearing the cries                                                     painting the land

            of the hungry.                                                         with a lambent glow.

                        Mothers rise at night                     The moon rises at night

                        to hold their hungry                      in dazzling brilliance

                        ones to their breast.                      setting the sky ablaze.

                                                Mothers rise at night

                                                to the moon’s call

                                                cradling their babies.

                                                Mothers rise at night

                                                to bathe their souls in

                                                the moon’s radiance.

Mothers rest their babies                                                The moon rests at dawn

back down as they rise                                                     in the glow of the rising

in the morning light.                                                          sun on the horizon.

Two Trees

Two trees stand afield as fog

on a golden wave rolls in.

Twilight enlivens the glow

until darkness fades to grey.

When did the hummingbirds leave?

Summer gives way to winter.

Days grow short. The light dims

swallowed by eternal nights.

I so hunger for color.

Will the hummingbirds return?

Oh, to be a whirling maple

casting crimson leaves to the

wind, releasing my spirit

from its earthly restraints.

Walking Toward Home

Walking toward home at sunset

I pass beneath a birch

on a brilliant carpet

of amber leaves who

once danced with the wind.

Now lay spent where time

once was and is no more.

A place apart where

flesh and blood fall away,

breath becomes spirit.

Enveloped in a golden glow

I awaken within

a sacred realm of light

filled with joy beyond

my understanding.

Surrounded with peace,

I wait in awed silence

as night closes the veil.

I walk home in darkness,

light still within me.

Enraptured

Enraptured

wooded paths entry

to worlds set apart

revealing secret

inner wonders.

Enveloped

evergreens enshrine

cavern carpeted

with amber needled

radiance.

Encased

milkweed pods enclose

silken parachuted

seeds awaiting flight

on the wind.

Enchanted

mushrooms encircle

fairy ring of lore.

Stumble inside to

dance with elves.

Entangled

grass thimble en-laced

nest of hummingbird

skillfully woven

to vanish.

Enlightened

quest to encounter

divine mysteries

simply revealed on

nature’s path.

Three Olive Finches

On a grey December dawn

three olive finches sit frozen

on the feeder facing east

in solemn silence.

Watching out the window

I too am caught under the spell

of a quiet moment of

prayer without words.

The crisp morning softens as

first rays of sunlight reach over

the horizon caressing

the frigid birds.

They turn now in unison

to feast together on seed

having witnessed the divine

in warmth and light.

Wind Buffets the Trees

Wind buffets the trees,

tossing branches wildly,

flailing leaves strain their

slender connections.

I’m blinded by its force,

tangled hair whips my face,

upset by an argument,

unable to move ahead.

Dry yellow leaves fly out,

expelled amid hardy ones.

Fall’s long shadow cast over,

what remains of summer.

Solstice has passed, days grow short,

darkness lengthens into night.

Consequence of a long life,

is knowing what comes next.

I steady myself against

a swaying tree, praying

it has been made stronger,

by wind that buffets it.

Tiny Nuthatch

Tiny nuthatch picks a seed,

flies to the power pole,

perching upside down

places it in a hole.

It’s acrobatic skills

captivate this watcher.

His instinctual need

to prepare for winter.

Nearby is a downy

who sees the cache

flies to the power pole

boldly plucks out the seed.

Every season has its time

to reap, to feast, to starve.

Survival for those who

look ahead and those who watch.

As Night Falls

As night falls, darkness

moves in around me.

Standing alone, breath held,

listening……..waiting.

How does one explain

the presence of owls?

Flying on silent wings,

so quiet, they have

been mistaken for

spirits of the dead.

How does one explain

the presence of the dead?

Their voice as a dream,

a glimpse out of sight,

an improbable

answer to prayer.

How does one explain

the presence of prayer?

An owl calling out,

silhouetted in the

moonlight to his love,

stars circling above.

Tales in Snow

Trudging through snow

on a winter morning

recounts a story of those

who have gone before

leaving messages behind.

Squirrel  tracks

pattern the frozen snow

like inverse braille

directing the mice below to

where feeder seeds  lie.

Rabbit tracks

cluster under low branches

along with grouse and pheasant

paused in sheltered  grottoes

to scan the horizon.

Deer hooves

make deep impressions

along with trailing foot

like exclamation marks

declaring caution.

Coyote prints

tracking their prey

thicken the plot

follow the narrative left

behind by the vulnerable.

Darkening clouds

promise fresh snow

starting a new chapter

of tales of those in print

who passed before.

A Curl of Brown Leaf

A curl of brown leaf

spins into the air,

released from its bond

by a gust of wind.

It twists and turns in

jubilant dance before

falling back down to

return to the soil.

No one notes its passage

except for dreamers,

who yearn to fly free

untethered from earth.

Soaring through clouds,

spun in a whirlwind,

letting go of matter,

sun, rain, and being.

Before tumbling back,

into arms of the wind,

set down to rest in

the field of leaves.

Unless the wind

desires once more,

to dance with leaves in

a swirl of ecstasy.

Diving Into the Lake

Diving into the lake

she emerges to float

weightlessly drifting

taking in the vast sky.

Within that blue expanse

an eagle circles high

flaps its wings then glides

on the air looking down.

Captured in that moment

a transcendence of self

gliding weightless along

the two become one.

Like the water and sky

they share the horizon,

communion of spirits

together soaring free.

Dark Comes Early

Dark comes early

Snow coats land

Trees stand stark

Trunks hold up

Starry sky.

Sharp cold air

Breath forms clouds

Wading through

Deep snow drifts

Steps muffled.

Moonlit field

Stag stands still

Watching me

Watching him

Sees beyond.

Looking Into the Darkness

Looking into the darkness,

she lifts her head, ears erect,

listening to sounds that

arouse her primal instincts.

Catching a scent in the air,

her nose drops to the ground,

follows it through the brush,

snaking through the tall grass.

Suddenly, she drops and rolls,

twisting back and forth,

disguising her odor with

a wild animal essence.

Leaping to her feet, the wolf

emerges from noble ancestry,

who stalked its prey, killed,

and howled with the pack.

Gazing up, the predator

sees in me the first woman,

who threw meat scraps to the pack,

from the fire, as they drew near.

Wagging her tail, she turns,

remembers the way home,

her bowl of kibble, soft bed,

and fireplace to dream beside.

In the Dead of Winter

In the dead of winter,

sun recedes behind bare trees,

temperatures plummet. Bundled,

Tara and I head out.

Thick snow blankets the brush.

Shelter for field mice,

Hide and Seek for Tara,

whose nose probes the mounds.

Leaping off the suet,

a fat squirrel escapes

in a powdery spray.

Tara strains at her leash.

In the grey dying light,

darkness replaces beauty,

stealing my attention,

invading my thoughts.

Last night, unable to sleep,

I slipped into your room,

laid my hand on your cheek,

listened to your breath.

I looked into the abyss,

felt its icy slope.

While you slept soundly,

my world started to slide.

In the dead of winter,

field mice lay hidden,

squirrels watch from afar.

Tara and I turn back.

Bitter Winter

Bitter winter.

Below zero

engine stalls.

Emotions

hibernate.

Cold takes hostage.

Tightly

bound by

parka, and wrapped scarf

mummified.

Perspective narrows,

senses

grow numb.

Deaf, blind, and mute,

darkness descends.

Deeply cocooned.

Sunlight

slips in,

melting despair,

awakening hope.

It’s All Was Talked About

It’s all was talked about,

how winter stole spring away,

those April showers bringing

only snow and dashed hopes.

Not a pretty subject for poems,

the long cold winter of

desolation and despair,

so bleak, it hurt to live.

To cope, emotions were

secreted in dark dens

like black bears deep in sleep,

their hearts barely beating.

Each day had to be faced

with grim resolution,

even the day spring came

my parka worn like a shroud.

Sun filtered through bare trees

drawing me like a moth to flame.

Turning toward the warmth with

eyes closed, red light streamed in.

Ice melted from my heart,

my frozen spirit thawed,

feelings stumbled out

of their gloomy cave.

May showers brought new growth,

hummingbirds returned along

with enough hope to store

until life’s next winter.

Drawn into the Forest

Drawn into the forest,

troubled with loss and grief,

drought, disease, destruction.

Trees respond, ‘Our roots run deep’.

Swept high into branches,

a shared communion of

breath and expiration,

life’s fragility.

When the soul departs from flesh

will it be lost in a void,

falling into an abyss

of nothingness nowhere?

‘Death brings transformation.

Our ashes sift deep in soil

to be fed by sweet rain,

nurtured by warm sunshine’.

‘We are seedlings of spirit

resurrected, reaching

to the light on new limbs

raised in praise toward heaven’.

At sunrise, feel the warmth.

As rain falls, taste its sweetness.

Reach out toward heaven,

pray roots run deep.

Quietly the Snow Falls

Quietly the snow falls.

Its feathery flight hushed

as it blankets the ground.

I stop and listen to

the music of silence.

With eyes closed, I raise my

face to the sky. Flakes coat

my cheeks, my nose, my lashes,

melt down my neck in a

frozen baptism.

I am aware of my

heart beating in my ears,

my breathing in and out,

my smallness within this

greatness, apart and a part.

Paradise may be far off, but

there is peace in this place

where distance disappears

as snow fills the silence

between heaven and earth.

Sandhill Cranes Returned

Sandhill cranes returned.

Their haunting calls echo

through the still bare trees

and frozen swamp of time.

We shout, “Welcome back,”

as spring breaks winter’s

strangle hold on us,

our bones begin to dance.

Grief no longer runs

like blood from my pen.

New birth and hope sprout

on the blank page.

The predator still lurks,

snow and cold remain

a certain threat but

death has loosed its grip.

Cranes fly above us,

giving their immortal cry

heard since time’s beginning,

“I am…I am…I am”.

Across the Linen Cloth

Across the linen cloth,

petals from the bouquet

lay scattered, red as blood,

dripping from wilted stems.

Snow continues to fall,

spring disguised as winter,

leaving life standing bare,

stealing what days remain.

Heard through worn carpet,

seen through frosted pane,

memories burnt for warmth,

leave in wisps of smoke.

Across the sky before dawn,

the waning crescent rises,

fades away to nothing,

then becomes new once more.

Wind Sings Through Trees

Wind sings through trees

swinging branches,

thunder rumbles,

in harmony.

Clouds swirl above

turning inky grey,

temperature drops,

as sky ignites.

Rain splashes down

soaking this poem,

washing the words,

clean off the page.

Wind sings on as

in the beginning,

words become flesh,

living with us.

Crying our tears,

singing our songs,

dancing with us,

out in the rain.