It is time

On morning walks,

I am rediscovering my own rhythm.

I am silent and absorbent,

taking in dew drop and birdsong,

zinnia bloom and amber light,

distant traffic roar and leaf rustle,

spiderweb and tree shadow.

The chestnut trees are giants towering above,

rooting beneath, resisting concrete.

I stand in their sheltering embrace,

their enclave, their microcosm.

Three buckeyes lay at my feet.

I see memories of small hands foraging sidewalk and street,

filling pockets with good luck.

I roll them now in between my fingers and palms.

They feel smooth, cool, soothing.

I examine the surface of each.

The warm color, the wood-like grain, are soft on my eyes.

There are lines, none straight, only voluptuous curves.

Seasons of mothering are folded into my mind,

woven into my heart, and encoded in my cells.

The children who came through me,

they have awoken from the fantastical wilds of childhood

into a dystopian adolescence.

I think,

it is time to attend all I neglected in the name of survival.

It is time to thread truth and beauty into the new stories.

Being Claimed

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There is mystery and magic to how we are shaped by place, by landscape, by ecosystem. In my search for connection, I am more often met by the wild than the human. I visited a shoreline of a youthful adventure past. The harbor seals and I exchanged wordless stories about the pleasures of swimming in briny waters, sleeping on sandy shores, and being awash in wave song.

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When I think I may succumb to loneliness,

art saves me, every time,

as does walking to riverside.

Wildlife draws near,

stirring up some kind of magic,

reminding me I am of this earth.

I am rabbit in the meadow at dawn, vanishing elusive.

I am doe at forest’s edge locked in gaze, awareness pure.

I am crow sharpening black beak on river rock.

I am coyote bewildered on noonday city block.

I am midlife she, crouched, one hand upon knee,

one hand in a sacred gesture, relaxed and ready.

In the dream-time season,

the spiral of descent pulls me inward,

a deep breath,

a pulsing path of shadow and light.

I encounter you there in surprise.

Tell me,

are we ourselves?

or, are we reflections of each other?

Lest We Forget, a poem for autumn

Early autumn days of waning amber sun,

eyes drawn to the weaving dance of contrasts–

light and shadow dancing through the trees,

shadow and light in a lover’s eyes.

Light and shadow.

Life and death.

Shadow and light.

 

The raw beauty of the world calls us to awaken with every new day,

lest we fall asleep,

lest we forget.

 

Summer’s flowers transformed,

hanging full and ripe.

These silent offerings,

willing to satiate hunger,

await the pluck of tender fingers.

A most primal, humble act of love.

An exchange accessible to those paying attention,

to those willing to act,

to those willing to fulfill the need to be seen,

to be known,

to be complete in purpose.

 

The raw beauty of the world calls us to awaken with every new day,

lest we fall asleep,

lest we forget.

 

Mid-autumn days of misty gray skies,

of flaming yellow, orange and red,

brown decay and evergreen endurance.

Harvests now gathered,

shelves lined with abundance,

and yet, questions linger–

like open, outstretched hands,

half-drawn circles,

tables set for company–

Will you enter into the natural exchange of love for love?

Will you dine in honor and gratitude?

Will you step into the circle offering your conscious, humble self?

Will you remember your purpose and do what you came here to do?