*Meditations*

Sitting on the sun-warmed granite bench
I sank into the depths
of the rusty-gate-voices of blackbirds,
the chik-chitter of chickadees and wrens,
the wind high in the pines,
the subtle scent of a blooming daphnia,
the swishing of the speedwell’s gingham skirts,
the footsteps of an ant on my shoe,
the “ziss” of a spider on it’s silk sliding from my knee,
the hum of electrons around their atoms.

*Baking Cookies*

In a craving for cookies
I went to my handmade cookbooks:
Mom’s “receipt” books.
Handwritten memories of
“Mom’s Chow Chow”
or “Mrs. Hackendorn’s Sand Tarts”.
But it was “Gertie’s Peppernuts” that I wanted
(“I make these” was written by the receipt).
They were what I craved,
but my hunger was satisfied by my thinking
of old friends again.

*Listening*

When the winds sing,
everyone listens.

Trees are at their quietest
when dancing to the music,
when birds sit tight,
when small animals hide,
when large animals tremble.

But when the winds sleep,
everyone sings,
everyone dances.
Day and night,
everything rests.
For when the winds speak,
everyone listens.

*True Love, 2019*

I remember my first love,
I was eleven years old.
In school we danced to
“True Love”
without ever listening to the words.
She moved away.

I remember other loves,
I older, but no more capable.
We too, danced,
but danced farther apart,
I still didn’t hear the words.
They moved away.

In love now,
I’m much older,
But we don’t dance much,
(after all, songs aren’t what they used to be).
I listen to the words, now.
Now that it’s time to move away.

*My Father at Gethsemane*

He would’ve said:
“Sit with me through this night.”
But he couldn’t,
all he had left was his wearied breath.

Into the evening he raised his arms
to the sky, and a nurse said:
“Some think it’s a sign”:
the impending end.

But hours after midnight,
as we listened to his breathing,
so hypnotically steady,
we left for a few hours of our own restless sleep.

And before we woke, he was gone.

*Raining*

It is a spring rain
like so many others,
bringing flowers
in a light but steady swirl.

Watching it,
is like watching
a caressing cloud,
a hug of water.

This nursing mother
that brings the flowers
is now bending
them back to the earth,
rain from birthplace to grave.

*Ageless (How old are you?)*

Lifetime:
describing a continuum
rather than event.

I am, in a way,
the same person
as I was 10, 50, 70 years ago,
same name,
with evolved ideas and
understanding,
but still me.

I am the same person
that grandparents
hoped for, for their daughter.
The same person
great-grandparents may
have foresaw when they
stepped from their ships
thinking only of life and time.

I might even be the same person
that those yet unborn
will speak of:
the story of a life,
a story of an earlier time:
of a life in a never-ending life-time.

*Nothing*

What happens when the paper stays white
when the hand,
the pen
just won’t work together.

What happens when there is no more newness,
every word’s been said,
every inspiration is old,
every heartbreak’s been cried.

*Two Autumn Poems*

Sparrows dance on the ground
like autumn’s leaves in the wind.
Autumn’s leaves dance on the ground
like sparrows in love with the wind.

Golden leaves
rain down
from autumned branches
as Winter approaches.