Rainbows in Flight

Take wing upon a hummingbird
To mountaintops amid the pines
Down rugged trails to waterfalls
Sip nectar sweet from columbines.

A song so soft to soothe my soul
A frantic dance to stay in flight
Oh beat my heart to match the wings
Gild my spirit with rainbow light.

Night's Palette

A turquoise sky marbled with wisps of Xanadu clouds,

Framing smudges of magenta layered over wrinkles of denim,

Smeared above remnants of a setting orb

Outlining silhouettes of barren limbs stretching into space.

Let us walk along the shadows wrapped in weary contentment

Hands intertwined in night’s rhapsody

Silently sharing the crescendo of a days demise

As it graciously releases its last breathe into twilight.

Sprouting Awareness

    Spring is in the air and I am anxious to get digging in the dirt.  I love the smell of fresh turned soil, planting seedlings in my boxes and watching them grow.  There is something special when you can bite into that first ripe tomato, add the fresh onion and oregano to your sauce, or boil the red potatoes with a pot of snap beans. 

     I'm not a winter person.  I seek out the first signs of green, the new buds on the trees and the first wild flowers growing along the roadsides.  I hunt daily for the sighting of the robin redbreast and blue jays in flight.  I ache to hear the sounds of rain pattering on my windows awaking the earth from its winter slumber.  Bunnies sprinting across my lawn in the early morning hours as the sun crests over the tops of the recently budded trees.  The air is still crisp in the mornings with the tang of fresh clippings from grass newly mowed.  My step is lighter, my moods sunnier, my smile brighter.  I stretch and twirl, laughing at the chatter of squirrels foraging the last remnants planted before the past frost.  Soon they will be feasting on new crops of seeds and tasty young shoots. 

     Even my dogs are frolicking in the yard, jumping higher, playing with joyous abandon.  Nature senses the cleanliness of a new year and all the promises of growth, fertility and abundance it has to offer.  I too look forward to a new start.  Every new day is in itself a blessing; one to cherish and embrace.

A Stand in Time

            The gnarled ancient oak sits leaning into the river bank covered in a heavy crust of moss.  Holes peppered it's bark from years of worms, woodpeckers and carpenter ants.  Limbs bent and twisted, reaching to dip over the cool crisp runoff from the mountains surrounding the placid lake.  A slight breeze teases the leaves but is not enough to stir the branches.  The majestic tree has lined this shore for years, watching life progress at a steady, sedate pace.  Boats carrying passengers of all ages and nationalities passed this shoreline bringing settlers to the surrounding area.  Homes dot the landscape clinging precariously to the mountain side, blending into the landscape beside aspen and evergreen.  Once there were only a scattering of log cabins hidden deep within the peaks.  Now rustic contemporary homes surrounded by wrapped porches gaze out over lush foliage admiring the visage of the ranges weaving through the countryside. 

            Seasons change the views as Spring growth, moves to the heaviness of Summer, the beauty of Autumn flora and white of the Winter. Cubs alight from the dens of their mothers as the cycle of life renews.  Nests are built for both squirrels and birds high above the ground where predators lurk.  Puma teach their young to forage while rabbit and otter instruct theirs to evade.  A lone eagle circles above peering down at the bighorn sheep scaling the shale, negotiating the precipices of rock it calls home.

            I too walk these paths, venturing into wilds, climbing rock, stretching muscles and mind as each focus on their tasks.  The air is raw with the chill of the approaching changes of winters arrival.  Autumn graces the leaves that crunch beneath my feet, mixed in with the cushion of pine needles.  Century old aspen are bare, dead from the bore beetles that have destroyed acres of these stately timber.  Blue laces through the tan of the wood, marbling like an artists watercolor.  It will take years to clean the forests of the dead wood to allow nature to replenish.  Controlled burns will need to happen to achieve the renewal of life.  I run my hand over one such beauty, with the white smooth bark standing tall beside me with its leaves of brown.  Newer growth, not damaged, is dressed in an array of yellows and reds in bright contrast to the brown. 

            Life must change.  Nature evolves taking with it the strong as well as the weak.  Trees like the oak leaning, dipping into the lake withstand while others as old and proud whither from natural selection.  I too will eventually whither and die like the aspen, replaced and replenished as settlers have been over the changes of the seasons.  It is only right.  While I can enjoy, embrace, value what surrounds me, I will.  I will not grieve but rejoice over the sapling I notice clinging and in the fortitude of my old friend as he stands against the lake, bearing testimony to the ages.

Autumn's Expectation

Eggs whites strew across the evening sky, anticipating rain

Brown fluff interspersed with white, folding across the horizon

Hints of orange ribbon bleeding through the gaps of blue

Grey smudged along the edges, like a painter’s afterthought

Cool breeze caressing my hair like a lover

Finger combing it off my shoulder to expose my neck

Leprechauns leap beneath leaves dancing across my path

Faerie torches speckling darkness like dots before my eyes

I walk in solitude drinking in the smells of autumn

Fall approaches me like a forgotten friend

First hints of raindrops kiss my eyelids

I raise my face gladly welcoming her bequest

Summer is put to bed; contained deep within earth’s bosom

Nestled inside the heartbeat of yesterdays blessings

Tomorrow is soon enough to wear my mittens

Today I want to dance freely to the melody of change

It Beckons Me Back

Paddling through on a warm summer day

Reeds sway in the deep waters green

Quiet, mirror reflections mimic my thoughts

Frogs on a Lilly pad croak a hello

Dragonflies cause ripples as they dip to the surface

Lone bass leaps, gleaming scales in the sunlight.

I wish I had my fishing pole

This special place to drop my line

But alas this trip is a scenic one.

I’ll mark this cove for another day

When I’ll return prepared to bait my hook

For now, I’ll dream of the one that got away.

Solitary Survivors

I walk along the streets as darkness falls
Bundled deep within layers
Of sweaters and scarves, hands deep within my pockets
Smiling as the frigid air caresses my face.

I breathe deeply, absorbing the scent of pine,
Brusque air and dried leaves
Mingled with the scent of logs
Burning, escaping into the night.

An owl in the distance hails the deepening dusk.
The wind blows off the last of summers survivors.
Turning up the collar of my weathered pea coat,
I find myself gazing into the face of a full harvest moon.

How I treasure these solitary walks.
The peace of a gentle evening deep into fall.
Crisp pine needles crunch beneath our feet,
My dog Blue and I out for our daily evening jaunt.

The Circle Resumes

Sentries of the night stand guard in perfect formation

Across the stretch of wire, like clothespins on a line

While speckled flocks of grackle stain the landscape

Spots of black against a field of brown.

As if on cue, they choreographic their flight

Up and down, like waves at low tide

Just a ripple before they settle

Bobbing to a minuet as old as time.

Chatter of excitement as they discuss the day’s events

Children too excited to sleep, too restless to stay still

Something moves, and the sentries cry out a warning,

Taking flight, the sea bursts forth into the sky

Absorbing the last strands of light

They take flight across the shallow riverbed.

Reflections of black specks against the setting rays of sun

Up towards the back wash of brilliant pinks and yellows

Shards of cerulean attempting to hold back the sapphire night

A finger-painting of bleeding hues

Streaked across a mat from a single orange focal point.

A stroke of madness in a painting of harmony.

Night’s orchestra tunes up for tomorrows concert

They return at dawn to greet the day

Renewing once again the sonnet of the night

And the circle resumes.

*Photo from Clip art by Microsoft