still pond
mesmerizes
migration complete
trees shrouded in winter white
prayer shawl pulled tight
face to the sky
Photo credit: Merelize
Nature
Some We Leave Behind
Stubborn firs stand warm and smug
beside the giving trees,
shadows now of skeletons
against clear blue skies.
Ground glitters red and gold,
cracks beneath the rakers’ feet
as he piles the oldest, most brittle
atop the crimson bright.
Tis time to take our leave
and slowly say goodbye
to those once colorful days
of leaping, laughing youth.
Photos from walks and visits this past week.
Cormorant
The cormorant held its breath
and disappeared from sight.
Black, long necked sleek bird,
ducked under, gone.
Like an actor in the second act
it pops up in a different place
new school of fish
different shoreline.
Would that we could do that
shift the paradigm
be a revisionist cormorant,
hold our breath
and recreate the scene.
…and the Seasons Tilt
Aspens quake in fear
Sycamores pretending happiness
turn smile-happy yellow,
while the Mighty Oak
blushes crimson red.
They know Winter lurks
behind crisp cool autumn air,
her cold heart waits impatiently
to unleash harsh winds,
strip them of their dignity.
They will stand naked for all to see
rattle and shiver with no recourse
while we don puffy coats
bright red stocking caps
and hand knit yellow scarves.
We add layers of color
while they stand
dark limbs exposed,
the transition time
when the seasons tilt.
Photo: October 14, 2015 in Boston Public Garden.
Seasoned Flavor
Summer by the sea,
two months past.
That sweet-sharp
salty lick of ocean air
gone.
Autumn in the city
dry lips
moistened
by warm apple cider
as eyes celebrate
glorious color.
One Sky
The same white clouds,
the stuff of wispy filaments framed in blue
float o’er my head in quietude.
And soar above bright sunflower fields
flower heads tilted to the sky
in warm rays that beam on me.
And witness from above
far away killing fields
acres of blood with heads askew
eyes frozen grotesque in pain.
These same sentinel clouds,
all seeing
all knowing
how can that be?
Early Fall-Crisp Day
A single red-orange leaf
floats unnoticed to the earth.
Acorns and hickory nuts
ping and thud upon the roof.
Once proud tall hollyhocks
droop in frostbit demise.
Logs lit to flame, hiss steam
hoarfrost warmed in hearth.
I sit, crocheted afghan in my lap
coffee mug nearby
and savor the season.
….and the fall shall come
Cool crisp sun filled morn
sand colder between my toes
sea shore autumn calm.
A Glimpse in Time
I press my hand into the rock
this cave dwelling of yesteryear
and yesteryears before that
hand in hand, exactly
living inside solidified.
Bending still,
my eyes turn upward
seek the crevasse,
its light
and breath of breeze.
Clouds stir
create, reform
amorphous ambivalent shapes.
A spirit courses through my fingertips
perhaps rides the wisps above.
And I understand. I feel. I know.
Those before me, before them
all are dear to her,
threads of life intermingled
tied to the earth’s core.
Me in 2003 — at Walnut Canyon, Arizona. The Sinagua people lived in the cliff dwellings within the mountain sides. This is me, putting my hand into a print in the cave wall — I was so moved. My hand fit exactly. I’ve never forgotten it. The second “picture” – my words, written next to the picture in my scrap book….”It is an amazing feeling of connection to humans of another time.” All these years later, still remember that feeling and it motivated this piece.
We the Voyeurs
We fly in this metal cylinder
to escape the city frenzy
and we still sit in the midst of it.
Hear metal belt click shut
and engines roar
feel the rush of air
from round blow holes overhead.
Nothing natural in this enclosed world.
Binoculars hang about our necks
a noose we choose to use.
Instead of trekking high,
step by step, from tree line to the sky
we ride a four wheeled bus,
now dusty from its assault,
on roads carved deep
into your very core.
We crane our necks
at white dots on mountain tops
adjust a rubber eye piece to our face
seek to magnify without a fuzzy blur.
Specs become horned dall sheep,
heads down to graze upon the rocks
unaware of human spies
with black binoculars eyes.
Last night, we communed with earth
faces up, we stared
into the cold black diamond sky.
One star jarred loose,
arced its way across the sky
as if to tell us in its glitter script,
you are the voyeurs within this space.
Denali National Park bus. The Kantishna Experience goes to the end of the one and only road in the park — to mile 92. I was struck by the magnificence of the land and its inhabitants: grizzlies (see poem Ursa), caribou, moose, dall sheep. And I kept thinking that we were the voyeurs, the interlopers in this incredible place.
lillian the home poet 