Shadow of Mine
We walk, you in front of me
one created flesh and bone
the other born of sun
elongated faceless gray.
Seamlessly
we stroll the beach
arms out wide now close in
darkness plays with light.
I stop you stop
your head turns as mine
we follow a gull’s flight
as it rises from the sea.
If I turn and reverse my course
will you dance behind me
like the kite that zigs and zags
when its master loosens his hold?
We lived in Bermuda for 35 days (Jan 24 – Feb 26) at Crooked Elbow, #5 Shinbone Alley. Bermudians in St. George name their homes. So we totally missed Boston’s 100+ inches of snow. Well, not missed, but missed — you know what I mean.
We understood quickly why, during one of his stays in Bermuda, Mark Twain famously wrote, “You go to heaven if you want to, I’d rather stay here.” We spent many a day in shirt sleeves hiking the Old Railway Trail.
The Tree
Sprawling twisted legs
of varied length and size
gnarled knotted and crawling over each other
seeking to be sure-footed on this earth.
Torso evolved into two odd-shaped
bark encrusted bodies fused as one
yet each side and angle unique
as if a fraternal twin.
Like many-armed goddess Durga
female in beauty strength and power
you bear fruit with crimson leaves
to protect your own from the maelstroms of nature.
A tree spirit, you walk and dance while rooted in solitude
your only partner a yellow breasted Kiskadee who
flits from branch to branch making its acquaintance
with all your wondrous limbs.
I’ve always loved the sound of rain.
My most vivid memory is from the first years of our marriage, when we went camping in the woods near Lake Superior in our old canvas tent. The kind where you couldn’t touch the canvas “walls” or they’d “bleed” — meaning the rain would seep in. So you had to center yourselves — which somehow is really what the rain seemed to do.
We’d fall asleep quietly, just listening to the rain. Have you ever done that?
Rain Song
Plop
patter
ping
slow steady
nocturnal rain
tapping on the yellow-green ceiling
of my ancient canvas tent.
Comfort seeps in
as I burrow deep
in my cocoon zippered bag,
crisp cold nose
just outside the seam.
Lids shutter
slowly
to listen as thoughts float
in a cool haze.
A hooting owl sits sheltered
beneath spring’s green-yellow canopy
the drip
drop
patter
plops above his feathered head.
Dreaming now, I see
a moon sliver guide me
to a moment of clarity.
These rain notes
are nature’s evensong:
a prayer for all who sleep
in this forested place.
lillian the home poet 