The thoughts today
are simple.
Friday has stripped away
glitter, grit, and worry.
What’s left
is a yearning to hold hands
in the sun.
The Way Rocks Settled
The brokenness became
like a flowering groundcover,
something soft to step around
making us beautiful survivors
Pain is not as noticeable
when you are in the midst
of a smiling kiss
A year becomes two and then
a decade and a lifetime –
sometimes a whole afternoon
Pieces of songs of the past
and of flowers not yet bloomed
converge in dreams while
the river’s mosaic is a loving tribute.
Take this quiz to see your ideal leaf partner
Do you like moss or timeless blue skies?
Is your walk syncopated or does the time slip like acorns across a path?
Choose your level of training in spinning: a) playful top, b) abandoned merry-go-round, c) dervish.
Describe an ideal time of day: (sunrise, tea time, twilight, sunset, dead of night, other…) and why.
Do you have a fear of falling or do you dream of flying?
Wallflower or steam train?
Fur or silk?
Wind or rain?
Coffee or tea?
Plaid or paisley?
Drum beats or primal scream?
Bend or break?
Would you rather be a pillow for two lovers talking or a soft landing for two animals fighting to the death?
Describe the difference between seasons, from first bloom to last dust.
Light as a Falling Feather
Sometimes when I walk,
I hear my steps echo loudly
as though my presence is an audio offense,
pavement and grit rejecting me.
I know I don’t fit in places where my shoes
are click-clacky, and I inwardly cringe there
while forging ahead, pretending I’m
a “can-do” gal with purpose from
the era of Hepburn’s “Desk Set.”
The places I belong are forgiving
of my size and what I carry with me.
Moss doesn’t just tolerate, it accepts.
I can pull away barriers and toss aside
worry and pain and feel lighter
in the arms of the one who loves me
here in this place of trees and streams.
Moving at all some days feels
like a monumental challenge, as difficult
as carving movement in marble,
but as the seasons filter through my woods,
I walk and feel my steps as gentle
as a falling feather, which means hope
in some language of flight.
Direction
The river must be flowing
but it looks like it’s shimmering in place,
ripples shining beneath the noonday sun
like sequins on a belly dancer.
I can’t feel any rhythm
but I hear laughter and dried leaves shaking
on the early chilly March wind.
All else quiet; shadows and busy reflections.
I follow the path
because I don’t have a sense of direction
and I am curious, eager, and not tired
of finding new things in old days.
The Word Rummager 