Wisdom at Midnight


Last night, at midnight, an Owl spoke in the forest,

And I understood.

Listening I realized how a perpetual misunderstanding was coloring my thoughts,

But not the owl’s as her knowledge is deep and colored by nothing but the truth.

As I lay alone in my bed, I felt the darkness soothe the forest’s heart and hoped, but

It could not touch my disturbed soul.

I couldn’t see, I didn’t know what was next,

I felt suffocated by the inky blackness while

The forest mother was at peace and

Sighed in contentment.

My only peace now will come from learning from her.

To accept her invitation to  surrender my will and lay down in her gentle softness,

To use a layer of her leaves as my bed while

Her twinkly night sky becomes my pillow.

I will trust her to protect me, to hold me close and

Put me to sleep with her lullaby of star-shine.

I know its the only way as Her wisdom is deeper than mine, dependable,

Greater than me, and more than just a beacon in this perpetual darkness.

Tell me, did you hear the owl’s wisdom at midnight too?

The Single Second of Midnight

The Deep primal sounds at midnight are

A gathering of voices in the dark.

The language is unknown

But the meaning is understood.

Darkness hides the players

But not the play

As it is a script followed

Since the beginning of time.

The cast of characters remains the same with only

The players changing.

The truth of the story portrayed is undeniable, and

Is perfected in the casting of souls when the sounds of their voices gather and

Eternity resides in the single second of Midnight.


It Waits

It waits with patience hands

Outside our knowing, waiting to be let in.

Its story is always the same,

Its truth dependable but not always what we want to hear.

There is no hypocrisy, no deceit in its soul.

It is the soul that fills the void, that encompasses the eternal.

It exists in rhythms of time, tides of dependability,

Cycles of freedom and seasons of hope.

It can be ignored, but never escaped and so it waits,

In beauty and joy, in bliss and acceptance, in love and peace,

For us to wake up and realize it is but a mirror of ourselves,

The face of our existence, the light in our souls,

The essence of our being

Before we were born.



It is almost gone now,

Sadly diminished.

Only the hard and tough oaks

Remain to carry the song.

They sway less and less as

There is not much left to catch the wind.

But the wind still blows, it comes in waves and churns the ocean of trees.

One tree after another reacts to the wind’s hand, its push, its power.

Some bed in a flurry of dancing of limbs,

Some hold their ground, refusing to bend to the will of the wind.

The wildness of the wind comes in stages,

Craziest at the tree tops,

More subtle midway down with only a modicum of movement

Just feet above the ground.

I’ve often wondered if their roots feel the pull and tug of the wind. 

Are they dying to let go of the earth and fly away?

And when the leaves have all fallen, the wind’s song fades completely,

Losing its soft voice.

The summer’s soft song is replaced by the harsh clacking of naked branches and

The howling of frozen limbs in the dead of winter’s endless nights.

I hate to see the leaf song go,

I will miss is warmth and rustling.

But I will hold its song within,

Deep within, and sing it to myself in the dark time to come

When all in solemn stillness sleeps.


November Silence



The color outside my bedroom window is gone.

Yet evergreens stay to remind me of life’s continuance, always existing just below the surface.

The trees are stark silhouettes of gray,

Each branch and twig evident and asleep.

There is a new silence in the wood.

It is a soft, comforting, sleeping silence.

A hush of reverence,

A soothing of soul.

Awareness hangs liked smoke among

The naked branches.

It is an awareness of belonging, of no doubts,

Of confidence in the being and faith in the belonging.

And so they stand, the trees, in winter’s silence,

In perfect harmony with their place and mine.

Each a witness to the other and

Both a witness to the One.

Silver Smoke

Bright blue sky holds the

Silver gray smoke from the chimney.


Golden leaves fall in

Showers from the trees and


Dry brown leaves dance with each other in circles

On faded green grass.


I sit here alone, watching, smelling, seeing and smiling.

A gray squirrel chatters at me from the edge of the forest, what is he saying?


The day is getting late and my house now sits in the shadows.

With the sun in my face, I can barely make it out.


It’s as if it has blended back into the woods

From which it was made.


All that remains is the red chimney, the silver smoke

And the chatterind squirrel.


My place in all of this is erased, and unneeded, it will all carry on without me.

The petunias continue to climb over the iron rooster’s back in defiance of my will,


Or what they perceive to be my will.


I think I’ll go inside now and make more silver smoke.


Nowhere To Move To

I start at the edge of the woods,

In the bright shiny green chair.


But the sun moves,

Its fast shadow cooling my feet and the legs.


Cool air rises to take the sun’s place,

Filling its shadow.


So I move, dragging my chair,

Holding my phone and Mary’s book.


I sit again, read a few pages, then the

The sun moves and again I drag my chair.


My spot I choose by the marigolds doesn’t last either and once again

I move.


This time to the red chair by the driveway.

My book and phone follow as I know they will.


And now, as I sit on the driveway in the red chair,

The sun’s shadow creeps ever closer to my feet and


I realize there is nowhere else to go, nowhere to move to,

Nowhere else to be, but it’s alright, an ending of sorts, I guess.


I can leave my chair here, empty, on the driveway,

No one will notice, no one will come to move it.


I am no longer in anyone’s way.


Pumpkins roasting in the oven,

Canning jars full of summer bounty drying on the counter.

Carrots and beets are waiting in the cottage garden, waiting to be pulled and washed,

Blanched and put to rest in the freezer.

Summer’s tender fruits have come and gone.

Only the hardy and hardest of all remain.

The winter squash takes the place of its summer

Thin skinned cousins.

Hard beets, potatoes, and turnips

Wait to be dug and stored in the cellar.

Apples shine on the trees, enticing us to climb and gather.

Their red faces sparkle in the sun, begging to be picked and boxed.

So yet again, we preserve the jewels of summer to be cherished in the dead of winter,

They remind us of the taste of summer, when gardens are asleep and dreaming.

Nature’s balance (re-post from 2015)

Purple thunder, speaking sky.

The sound sneaks in to doubting ears.

But soon, unable to be ignored, it rolls in

Splitting the sky,

Singing to my heart

And watering the earth.

As the storm approaches, the lights go out.

The air is still and filled with anticipation.

Birds become silent and

Trees grow heavy.

The rain follows the clouds

And the wind rocks the trees to the sound of the sky.

Heavy air crushes the field and

Rain pummels the garden.

Plants, grass and trees shake in the torrent and rivers run along

The roadside washing away the day’s dust.

The very earth trembles with the power of the storm

As lightening spells its name in the sky.

The black clouds race across the heavens and

Carry the storm on their backs.

But all too soon for me, the western horizon brightens, the

Energy is spent, the storm subdued.

Sunrays break through the darkness and

The earth sparkles and shines in its fresh – washed brilliance.

The storm has run its course,

Released its tension and fulfilled its purpose.

The birds resume their song, the brook runs full,

The garden is watered and the earth refreshed.

The thunder returns to silence and

Nature’s balance is restored.



What Is


The sound of rain takes me to a place of inner peace as the

Rain falls in sheets and slides down the roof and over its edge in a curtain of water.

Tree leaves dance with the weight of the rain and

Flowers wash their faces in its freshness.

The sky is lower on rainy days and

Holds us close to the ground.

Sounds are muted and muffled and

Light is defused in grayness.

But it is not a sad and depressing grayness,

But soothing and peaceful,

Full of necessity.

A rainy day, soft and dark, begs us to stop, rest and be mindful of our surroundings and loves.

It reminds us to take the time to be lulled by the patter of rain on the windows

Into a place of inner stillness,

And there remain, content to just be and accept what is.