Passions

I know that I love what I love.

My passions are many.

The sound of thunder ignites my soul.

The scent of simmering soup warms my heart.

My passion overflows for clear glass bowls and jars,

Shelves full of home-grown goodness,

Baby smiles and sighs,

Forest trees and critters,

Gardens full of life and love,

Friends and family,

Krishna’s promise of another day of light and joy and

My lover’s heartbeat at midnight.

My passions consume my heart and fill my soul and body

Leaving no room for sadness and negative thoughts as

I have no passion left for them.

Like Me

New friends.

We are so much the same,

Yet so different.

Is his smile a window to his thoughts?

Or a decoy for his sadness.

Are his jokes a sign of a lighthearted man?

Or a disguise covering something darker.

His story is like so many others,

Full of disappointments and fear, sadness and hurt.

Much like mine.

We are so much the same,

Yet so different.

We engage in small talk to lay a foundation,

Our lighthearted joking starts a deeper conversation.

But is it too soon, too raw, too scary?

There seems to be so much more to know about each other,

But, really, is that knowledge even necessary?

We appear to be so much the same, yet still feel so different.

Some of my stories are outdated and need to be let go and left behind.

They are no longer relevant,

No longer important to new friends,

Who, I have just come to realize,

Are so much more like me than we are different.

 

 

Just One More Time

Early Autumn thunder,

The thinning tree leaves let it in.

Their resistance is weaker, less resilient.

They nod their heads in confusion and look to each other for explanation as

Thunder rocks their roots and

Lightening sparkles in the air around them.

It is an unusual storm for Autumn as it

Comes in on strong northwest winds with the violence of a humid August storm,

As if needing to prove its might just one more time before

Winter’s cold takes its strength away.

Each season’s change is a mix of the one before and the one to come.

No wonder the trees look confused.

Between Seasons

The forest is different now,

Everything has changed.

The sky’s blue is colder,

The north wind is stronger, and

The trees’ summer green has faded.

Their leaves, lighter green now, are studded with hints of red and gold, brown and yellow.

My garden plants are lying over

As if to say “enough”.

They are entitled, they have given me all they can.

But nasturtiums, marigolds and impatients are troopers and refuse to let go.

They will stay strong until the frost’s icy fingers drag them down to rejoin the earth and sleep.

Summer’ song birds have long since flown away, and in their absence

All I hear are the crickets and the crows.

Autumn evenings are chilly and quiet, the silence broken by the occasional lonely bark of a fox and the haunting calls of the owls.

Heavy wind chimes hanging in my forest have been silent all summer but

Now sing with the strength of autumn winds while thistle down floats by in layers of life to be.

This season between the seasons is one of slow change but with an inevitable end.

There is no turning back, no chance to stay and nowhere else to go.

But in spite of this certainty, there is no turmoil, no angst or resistance among the trees and flowers for they know

This is how it should be, how it must be,

How it has always been.

One season losing its grip and

Sliding gently into the next.

My Hands

My hands are softer now,

More wrinkled but softer.

The physical strength of youth has faded

But the strength of endurance has remained.

Life is softer now too,

Also more wrinkled but softer.

Youth’s sharp edges have been dulled,

Made safer by times wearing.

Just as water over rocks smooths and polishes them,

My physical shape too changes with time but

My inner song remains the same.

 

Old Cat

They all keep saying “she is old”,

As if that mattered.

As if that made her less,

Less than she had been,

Less than before, before she was old.

For a cat, she is very old

But still her heart is young.

Now her end is in our hands,

Our decision to make, not hers

And all they can say is she is old,

As if that ever mattered.

The Keeper of the Words

I will write it, I know I will, but

The thoughts are not yet ripe.

It takes time.

They are lingering in the back of my mind.

I can feel their presence,

Taste their flavor, and

Feel them in my soul.

The words to express my thoughts are

Getting closer and stronger but

I am almost afraid of them

Because I know when they are ready,

They will flood my will and overwhelm me.

There will be no stopping the tide.

The words will flow through me as they are not of my making alone.

They are thoughts and ideas that have a need to be born into this world

And I am only the wielder of the pen,

The keeper of the words.

Unnoticed

There is magic in this night.

Brilliance in its darkness and darkness in its light.

Tonight, my soul is deep in the arms of midnight,

Too deep to see,

Too blind to know,

Its cries too silent to be heard.

I am astounded by the simplicity of this midnight,

But also shocked by its truth.

Too much time has passed with too little thought and

Now… what of now? 

It is gone.

Forever to remain,

Unnoticed.

The Missing Piece

I am tired,

Tired of fighting myself.

I have improved; I have found a way,

A good and honest way,

But the old ways and feelings

Die hard in spite of what I want.

I don’t want to feel this anymore

I want it to go away – completely.

But I know it never will.

It can’t until I do, and even then…

It has become a part of me,

Not the me you see but

The me I know

And that me doesn’t know how to erase it completely.

There is no erase button,

No permanent “delete” option.

My Being accepts that fact and holds him still,

Not because of me, but in spite of me.

Some days, when I am not aware,

That I am even thinking about him

It breaks through again in silent,

Unbidden tears.

Are they for me?

Or him?

Are they for a way that should have been,

A way that needed to be but wasn’t?

I guess I will never know.

They say it doesn’t matter as it is no more.

It is not present in the now, only in the past.

But I think my Being left a little piece of me behind when it moved on.

It is that little piece of me that still belongs to him

That I miss most.