Letters written are Origami birds folded so and set upon the wind, each character and word being blossom and stem for Ikebana, a vase on the altar, our sentences prayers in the temple.

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Poem

A poem is a coat tree
to hang your thoughts
A hat from a sunny day
The raincoat, a few stray drops
clinging

At the base boots that walked
when it was cold, a scarf fallen
It’s bright colors to be tossed
with ease over a shoulder
strong

Emotions too draped with care
tucked in close between the
somber umbrella and a gay
ribbon from a package yet
unopened

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Walking With My Shadow

Stretched out long
as if limitless in life
my shadow proceeds me

Arms stretched to touch
the ground feeling the
way lest I fall

In this very joy of morning
light other shadows have
walked with me

I remember and
greet them
Come along I say

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Friend

Our talk resumes
our steps rhyme
missing not a
beat on return

The ease of
bonds long felt
memories held dear
gratitudes exchanged

In parting we
know again unite
the way leaves
return in Spring

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Moonlight

I walked in moonlight
floating it seemed
the firm path lost to
moon shadow and white

as if in the sky stepping
so carefully cloud to cloud
their softness soundless
my footsteps on air

waning moon and stars
walls of forest a steep
canyon drafts of cool air
with scent of autumn leaf

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As Children To Play

A rising sun walks down
the tallest trees moving
crown to root bringing
forth fall color in bloom

An errant breeze and
leaves loosen their hold
a comforting hand
to fears dispel

Skittering across a path
as children to play dry
leaves in the wind
tumble today

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The Presence Of A Slight Weight

His landing so soft as if floating down
like a snowflake on a still winter night
soundlessly settling in the white moonlight
only those sleeping aware of its presence

In that between state sleep from wake
he came while dappled sun threw leaf
shade shadows over the room and
quilt upon which I lay

The presence of a slight weight
was all that announced his arrival
his footfalls silent as cotton puffs
tossed in the wind

A glance at my face with green-grey eyes
a touch on my skin with the softest of paw
as if to say “Oh, you are here too,
I guess that can be allowed”

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Roller Coaster

Up, twist, spin
emotions pulled tight
against the side as
I careen the banked turn
only to plunge
deep down heart
stopping fall tears
streaming for joy
fear, loss, life
and living

Hands up, cresting
rising in my seat
hope in this thin
air unknowing the
tracks that secure
us unseen the threads
that connect us one
to another, generation
to generation the silent
strong force of a life
lived

When you were young
you loved the roller coaster
can we do it again you said
We are doing it you and I
as we lean in and hold back
on this life theme-park ride
Hold my hand, its what we
do in the end

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Goodbye Before Hello

Approaching the door
with apprehension
a little uncertain
of place or person

A moment of failed recognition
understandable you see
as time had passed
events had intervened
but still unforgivable

I had been looking past this hello
to a distant goodbye
unable to enter the moment
for fear of the future
Saying goodbye before saying hello

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Passing

Life and death
lie entwined in
a restless sleep
the rise and fall
of her chest in
the rise and fall
of low voices on
the soft light of
days end

Though silent her
presence known
and ours in reply
we gather close
these few hours
in peace one with
another seamlessly
between here and
gone

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Kindness

Late summer, the woods are quiet
small creatures scurry away food
dropped obligingly from sheltering

trees

who themselves through means
unknown in an act of kindness
yield their life so another will

grow

as we do in moments often
unnoticed as a passing stranger
extends a hand to gather the

fallen

pieces, places, people so in need
a door held open, an understanding
given, a kind word now

spoken

so often left unsaid, how our kindness
to one another enriches and strengthens
giver and receiver, warmth in times of

cold

winter falls as the leaf settles wind
blown against the entrance, within
woodland life sleeps at the tree

safe

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Horse Carers

Early morning, passing us with a wave
and smile as we walk our little roads
coming to care for their old friends

Young horses

moving fluid like in the cool air
canter to gallop, muscles rippling
satin coat glistening, flowing like

New rivers

taking lead, tail up into the spray
up, over, moving quickly past, the
way days chase the years and now

Older, pastured

the carers carefully groom with curry
and pick soft strokes and whispers the
waters stilled now in eddies of rich grass

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What Are You Thinking Butterfly

emerging as you do from
your long sleep
I saw you just this morning
a wisp of wing and air

How surprised you must be
Hey this is new, guess I will
try it out, flower to flower
in quest and flair

Becoming more beautiful
youthful and new with
each stage unlike a
mere mortal as I

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Morning’s Just The Same

Standing at the edge of his drive
a short drive, a small lot
peering into the mysteries
of cool morning chores

Runners, walkers, dogs
with their people in tow
leaves in breeze, flowers
in autumn dress

Back streets, side streets
front porches, markets and
shops, love remains
we are not alone

Morning any town you choose
morning’s just the same
And lovely so, the sameness
the common acts of life I love

Strolling hand in hand
a carriage pushed, new life
leaves raked, a bush trimmed
flowers cut, a vase in wait on
a table by the window
looking out

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Laundromat Happiness

A bit run down, a
neighborhood of vintage
seasoned and a sort more

Brightly lit smiling face
eastern of some age she
sat outdoors on the white wall

Talking, laughing to her
phone companion now
brought close in waiting

Clothes tumbled and
whirled inside the way
her world tumbles and whirls

New to the country
hopeful and wary
the immigrant waits

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The Whisper

An autumn haze held the afternoon
colors warm the soft patter of leaf fall
filled the air like rain on a summer roof

Across the field three horses, chestnut
bay and black with mane and tail aglow
in the falling sun stand in close array

My old dog likes to take this in stopping
here on our walk as the sun sets
a horse whispers in her ear

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Morning Prayer

Not so difficult
this prayer
not far off in
realms unknown

It is this tree
in front of me
so close
I thank

For raindrops
felt sweetly
on my face
I am pleased

A breeze full
with fragrance
of the forest
this I treasure

Warmth of sun
food and shelter
a momentary peace
I indeed am grateful

A few grains of
pollen, the first
morning offering
these I leave

In thanks

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Summer Fields

There are blackberries at the edge of
the rock pile the mower doesn’t reach
returning this year as they did last
and the one before that

A basket against the wall in soft sun
yellow through the window glass
waiting where left
last I was here

Raspberries too mixed in briars
on a hillock rocky and rough
They gather together, the young
boys mother and sisters

Picking berries the talk
turns to stories of family
Uncles working the field
for last cut hay

Always the summer fields
blue of flax waving in breeze
golden in wheat and oats
timothy green and haystacks

Haystacks so high in
winter a ski hill taken by
hand-carved steam-bent
wood and a brave spirit

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Mud Room

The farmhouse was tall of clapboard white
a front entrance seldom used deferred to the
door up the back steps leading straight
to the heart

It is there you returned dust covered with chaff in the pockets
coming off the combine, it is there you shed those coveralls
after the calf was born and the welding done, it is there you came
head hung low seeing how the hail had flattened the wheat

She worked her crafts, dried flowers falling, stored on
the attic steps we children would ascend, the rumble
of thunder and rain patter of a summer storm our
companions in the sleep of innocence

Coming out of the North Country, I have a photograph, the four
stately in brown with pearl necklaces, leaving farming for the city life
Streetcars to work and a studio with a wall bed, shared bath
and dreams large and small

Not asking much, giving all, some returned, one to the white clapboard
farm where she decorated the wedding cakes, tended the flowers
at the old family plot and lit up my life with her smile and laughter
Sophie she was called

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Lost River

Benny stood in the vestibule
the funeral service just concluded
I believe it was Ann or perhaps
Jacob, the story passed down

He stood tall, straight, the suit
he married in still fitting when the
invitation went out “join us for
lunch” they said

A river ran through his place lost
at times as it flowed underground
The Aunts and my Mother would
take us there to swim and play

Us in the warm currents and soft
sand, they giggling and splashing
young again, at ease, at home on
the river they knew

He was retired then, from farm
to town in a home of his own
Age 93 they said though you
didn’t see it in his kind eyes

The answer came, half laughed
half spoken in a old Norwegian
lilt “No, I got a pot of soup on
the stove”

One would do well to be old
on your own with always
soup on the stove

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To Whom

It is written so
Careful words in
dark ink on paper
smoothed

The late hours
are so quiet
To whom
one to another

An alchemist to
bring love out of
indifference, joy
out of sorrow

This morning turkeys
in the meadow, I
saw them fly, deer
look, always curious

A centipede appears
softly striped, looking
about from my finger
stepping to the leaf

It may concern
yes it should concern
How to write in
ways that tell

With kindest regards

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