Poem in journal: Anima (in Summer)

This Grove of Trees

There is a wide circle
I am surrounded by it
and it is filled with silence.
Each day is a documentary,
I consider what is growing,
how to make my life sweet,
the slant of morning light,
the complaint of crows.

I will slowly turn moments
turning towards a breeze
suddenly
nothing has changed
but it will.
Love and honor this
for I was born to love
even to disregard blue light
as great engines
slowly, suddenly, pass by
this grove of trees,
shaking the ground,
while I stand still knowing,
this grove of trees

that I am here knowing,
this grove of trees
that was once
not forgotten.

New poem 2015

Where I Am Perched

Where I am

is where I am,

perched,

as a cormorant

on a stick.

Light on water

dazzles.

Just am here

though cold

rough beauty

is arresting,

as are tops of sailboat

masts amidst

 gaggles

of singing,

no where else.

The Little People

(It's Spring and Fairy is afoot)

The Little People

If I stand on tippy-toe

and turn ever so lightly

a space will open in the air

the smell of it drifts past my nose.

Sometimes when I turn like that

it is a rose garden all green

and pinkish, heavy with beese.

I know little people live in the creek

I know the perspective of looking up

through the underbrush as if it were jungle

the branches grow together overhead.

Sometimes the sun never peeks through

but there is always leaf on leaf

green on green—bright green jewels

lit from within—the green suns of our world.

At night in the pale moonlight

we play and play like we do all day

and all over, the blackness is touched

with a soft yellow of the fairy Queen’s nightgown

that she has thrown off playfully

and it floats down all around the world

the grass glistens moonlight on the dew.

The only thing we miss is the people-music

their instruments that sing like us

their baking sends smells down to us

we grow mischievous then and plan

ways to sneak through kitchen windows

at night we raid their refrigerators

as if we were their teenagers

who get a notion at midnight

they are a lot like us.

If only the people still remembered us

and left their food out on doorsteps

playing their music for us

sometimes joining in a dance

(that’s okay—we’ll do the singing).

  

I remember when the creek grows dark

under the cool branches and the leaves

are lit up and jewel-like,

the music is just out of ear-shot,

then my eyes can’t leave the clearness of the water.