There was something about a willow
years ago that called to me,
its shape all ethereal,
wispy-bendy branches,
and a phrase about its strength…
See how it bends, I read.
See how it blooms quietly by the lake.
Hear its soft leaves fluttering in spring
and falling in autumn.
I thought that would be my tree,
the swan would be my bird,
and I would be my own angel somehow.

But grace has found me hawks and herons,
a small pond full of dragonflies,
woods full of firs and alders,
and more storms than I can count.
I have broken and mended,
fallen and stood again,
sometimes by degree- acorn to oak,
eternal spring ready to burst inside
even when the season has shifted.

It was hours in the car
but we held hands
and the sky kept changing
so time was but a breath,
a turn of the light,
feet landing on grass in one place
and rock in another.

There was a beautiful old house
about halfway through the trip,
a bit ramshackle with peeling white paint.
It had put up a fight with nature
in the middle of a once-tended field
but nature was now winning,
vines and flowers and weeds claiming
more and more, beams and windows fading.
Time was taking a deep breath there,
taking in the house like it was sucking air
enough for a deep dive underground
to rally old roots and new shoots.

Content to keep going,
I would have liked a longer look
and maybe a word with the hawk
that perched in the pines,
but I remember the angle of its head
as it surveyed the landscape
and I was glad to be part of it.

She was so small,

sitting on the beach

somewhat focused

dragging her fingers

through the sand

not exactly oblivious

to others nearby

but focused on the pattern

and the sound of the waves

It was somehow years ago

but also just now,

a place in the moment

where time is irrelevant

and there is nothing

but the pattern

and the thrum of her heart

Her body’s edges blurred

sinking slightly into the sand

but her fingers didn’t stop

making circles

as the waves and her heart

kept up the flow

of the pattern keeping

the tide and time at bay

The world narrows

to where two sleeves cross,

where one wrist touches another

and hands entwine.

Feeling the warmth of skin

and solid bones resting together

in such a way

that makes the heart aware

of the pulse of lovers.

The pace of cozy quiet

and daydreams of scenes passing by

amount to a shared language

of all the unspoken things

while holding hands.

The hum of a bass

from a car passing by,

a loud thumping strumming within

A gale howling like a animal

looking to break free of the forest

but caught in shivering branches

A heart pounding with deep feeling

thoughts stolen from another time

where hope sounds like thunder

After rush hour, after the storm,

after loving, when alone time has come,

lights turn blue from sky to sea

The hum of waves and wind

pull and push while love keeps at it

beneath a dallying sun and moon