Rain

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

Falls in sheets, 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 me close to the ground.

Forest sounds are muted and muffled and

Light is  defused into grayness.

It is not a sad and depressing grayness,

But a soothing and peaceful shade,

Full of the necessity of remembered sorrows and joys.

I love a  rainy day that is soft and dark.  It begs me to stop, rest, and be mindful of my surroundings and loves.

It reminds me 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.

Ever Changing

December snow still remains,

Its essence uncovered by the spring melt.

A leftover from the beginning of the season,

It holds on, clutching the earth with icy fingers.

What was a soft powdery snow is now compressed with the weight of winter

Into hard, cold, sharp ice crystals.

Wanting to melt, it looks forward to returning to the earth to begin the cycle again.

It won’t be gone long as it will be back as summer rain and autumn frost.

Ever changing yet always remaining the same.

 

Beautiful Now

 

I am getting older; the days seem shorter,

But more beautiful with each passing year.

 

I am filled with gratitude as my time here draws nearer to the end

and I am able to take the time I need to look around and really see and appreciate this life.

 

Who knew it would all go by so quickly…

 

I want to spend the rest of my time loving and living every moment to the fullest

In truth and joy.

 

And with truth comes power.  Power to see things as they really are.

Power to be who I really am, finally.

 

My growing love and appreciation of life accentuates the beauty in the ordinary

Making everything extraordinary in its own way.

 

I now see clearly the beauty and magic in the color of sweet potatoes, a robin’s spring song at dawn, spring peepers serenading each other,

 

The smell of freshly mown hay, the light in a baby’s eyes, and

The sound of my lover’s heart beat in my soul.

 

There is a smoothness and subtle grace in every action I take, not because I bring it, but because it already exists everywhere if you just take the time to see it.

 

I have no more room for lies and no time to waste.

There is only now and now,

 

Beautiful now.

Again and Again

My life is contained in a shoe-box beneath my bed,

 

At the bottom of a green glass vase of pennies, or maybe

 

In the prayer flags hung over my mirror holding the cut-out owl Karen made for me.

 

My soul is contained and content in a mildewed pod growing in the land of wind and chi.

 

My future and hopes lie waiting in my pendant box, waiting for my questions with answers I may not want to hear and

 

My love, where is that?  In my heart or his? Love and lust are confused and linger in the scent of him on my heart.

 

My future is no more concrete then a speck of dust illuminated by the sun’s rays peaking through my lace curtains.

 

And death, what of that?

 

When it comes I will seal it and I in an empty bottle and set us adrift on an ocean of eternal possibilities and

 

Where the tide will take us is where we will stay and begin again, and again, and again…

Silent April Snow

The early spring silent snow

Fits my mood.

It is a white dusting of truth

Accentuating every little branch and twig,

Making every little lie all the more obvious.

The silence into which the April snow is falling

Seeps through my eyes and into my heart

As if to smother and quiet its

Telltale beats.

It comes as blessing and a curse by

Prolonging the inevitable with maybe that one last chance.

But I know the sun will come out and

It will all be just a memory …

Once again.

Storm Dance

 

 Coastal dunes slide and slip into the sea

As the storm rolls on to the north.

Gulls scurry to grab unfortunate crabs washed ashore by the crashing waves.

Seaweed floats and ripples with the waves like grass in the wind and

Salty sea spray coats the disinterested windows of empty houses on the shore.

The tourists have all left for the season

Leaving the ocean and beach to carry on with their lover’s dance,

Un-witnessed and unashamed, with freedom and reckless abandon.    

 

(2/23/17)

 

The Stones Will Remember (March, 2017)

 

Evening shadows shift

Through broken windows.

 

Chimney bricks slide down the roof

Puddleing under the lilac bush.

 

Weeds spread into the driveway

Reclaiming it for themselves.

 

When was this house built?

Was it ever new?

 

The yard and doorframes bear witness

To the families who grew here.

 

Long forgotten toys and broken swings

Hide beneath the matted field grass.

 

A broken clothesline flaps in the gray autumn breeze and

Sprung clothespins mold and rot into the ground beneath the broken posts.

 

Feral cats are now the only life that calls this old farm home,

But birdsong still fills the rafters of the barn.

 

The barn that once held livestock

Sits shifted on its foundation,

 

Listing and leaning to the south,

Away from winter’s fierce winds.

 

The stately oak gracing the front yard is rotten and broken,

Its fingers through the house roof.

 

Where did they go, the people

Who called this place home?

 

When the last one left,

Why didn’t they clean out the house?

 

Why not take the toys?

Close the windows? Lock the doors?

 

Did they not know they were

Never coming back?

 

The windmill out back has long ago

Crashed into the apple orchard,

 

Breaking in to pieces as it fell

and crushing the trees it had stood watch over all these years.

 

But in man’s absence

The apple trees continue to produce.

 

The lilac bushes flower every spring in spite of

Not being “cared for” in over 40 years.

 

The forest is slowing creeping back in to fill the void

Left when the field was abandoned.

 

All that remains of the people who once called this spot of land home

Is the family graveyard,

 

Where stones are carved with love and care,

Preserving for all time the names and dates of those whose lives began and ended here.

 

But the lilacs don’t care about being preserved,

The Oak is beyond pride and the buildings are slowly returning to the soil,

 

Just like the bodies beneath the stones.

Another 40 years and the stones will be all that remains.

 

They will be all that is left to tell the story

Of a time gone by.

 

The story of a house built to last a lifetime, a barn crafted with pride,

The story of generations of a family who lived, worked and died on this land.

 

A story only the stones will remember.
 

Of Love and Light

Nostalgia weighs heavy on my heart tonight, 

And I long for what could have been.

 

But then I remember why it wasn’t but what makes me the most sad is that I also remember 

That it almost was.

 

So wanting and loving, I sit alone in this night of late winter cold as the music of piano and cello drifts through my head.

  The sound of the cello speaks to my soul and caresses my heart.

 

In the melody, I hear two hands playing together in perfect union and feel that

I am as one of those hands, looking for the familiar accompaniment of the other.

 

And so in the depths of this late winter evening I am lost in

Remembering what never was, feeling what didn’t exist,

 

Loving what could have been  

In this time of warm darkness, candle light and winter solitude.

 

Now there exists only a memory of he and I, together yet alone,

Forever wrapped in the spirit of love and light.