awash in a sea
of new leaf green
the color of restarting,
bright against
the spiky lines of
evergreen that
stood their ground
all winter
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this is the latest in a group of recent poems that I have begun to think of as “shortlings”. longer than a haiku, but not quite as long as usual.
a dropped verbena leaf
is rubbed to bring the scent
of summer’s idle moments.
my kitchen window
frames a silver hand
that holds an instant’s light.
the soft delighted snorts
of dogs in greeting
as the day begins.
and at the kitchen door
I sip from morning’s cup
grateful for another rising sun.
With winter off its rails
a whiplash melt from ice
lays the lawn bare
its blades now gold
and fledgling green
looking much like march grass
foretelling sun warmed birthing
An accidental color
it fools the eye and heart
This is not caesar’s month
the cold and snow of janus
will reclaim their space
until the sun extends its reach
into the soil, and pulls spring up
At the piano I watch small fingers make their music so determined so well done the joy in her eyes is in my heart joking laughter with her brother so much taller than the last time more movies made and volumes read a classroom visit sticky hands and icing gingerbread embellished a dog asleep in sunlight the rhythm of lives cherished and held close in memory to be enriched once more
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This prose poem was written as I read about the events in the lives of two very dear members of an online creative group I belong to. it is posted in recognition of profound love and loss, and my abiding gratitude for the love of my family, as we gather together this week.
Once spied up on a dusty shelf
and brought home as a prize
the stuffing bowl sits quiet
holding memory in its curve
The sisterhood of early rising cooks
assembling the ingredients
of timeless celebrations
ingatherings of family and friends
all linked by common filament
It waits for careful hands
to lift it down and fill its heart again
with love and thankfulness
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My sister Annie and I have always called each other on Thanksgiving morning, up early, cooking.
in a redwood grove
the sun’s arm lights the ferny floor
in the company of beloved children
there is nonsense and wonder
in the winter marshland
there is texture more than color
in the midst of singing
the voices tell me stories
in the simple potent thing
there is splendor waiting for me
it feasts my eyes
and I am full of joy
While colors fade and drop
as browns and grays emerge
upright leafless spare
The sun finds a new path
closed off before the change
This new light is a gift
an opening of space and beam
delights forgotten while
the world was green
There the gold of larches in the marsh
a roof line now exposed
a barn or field with open sightline to the hills
All these a balm to ease our journey
into winter and the snow
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My cousin, the writer Jack Skow, gave me invaluable advice when I showed him this, still not sure if I got it right since then.
Awake not by choice,
my mind wanders freely
to think about change
as a passage, a progress.
Seeing light through the window
too early for sunrise,
the lamp of the huntress
sends beams without warmth.
As the moon sets I rise,
glance out at the shapes
tall pines against sky,
emerging from darkness
to frame the new day.
The morning’s first quiet
this time to myself
is precious and needed,
reflection and energy
both brew with my coffee.
Music a backdrop,
dogs fed and peaceful,
warming my feet.
This moment’s soft hug
the day’s work ahead.
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an early morning shortling.
Life With Horace 