Beauty in the Little Things

I keep thinking I ought to repaint the door, and then I come to my senses and see the beauty.

Gratitude List:
1. Heart conversations
2. Wise friends
3. The Makers–they inspire me. Make your stuff. Buy things made by humans. Besides the art and the grace of items made by human hands, there’s a deep problem-solving intelligence that imbues handmade items.
4. My shadow-self. I am learning, again, as I eventually do each fall-to-winter turning, to embrace her. She has things to teach me.
5. Twistings of black branches against a grey sky. Austere, in a quiet and thoughtful sense.

May we walk in Beauty!

Talk to the Wind

Today’s prompt is to write a “Tell it to the (blank)” poem.

Tell it to the fierce and rowdy wind, my sisters.
Tell your story to the little skipping breezes.
Tell it to the leaves as they scuttle down the mountain
to eddy in the shadows of the hollow.

Tell it to the mockingbird,my brothers.
Tell your trouble to the crow, the wren, the gull.
Tell it to the wild geese, whose message
will reach my ears as they fly above my valley.

I will whisper them to the willows.
I will reveal them to the prayerful gathering
of ferns unfurling by the stone wall.
I will wrap them in scraps of blue silk.

I will hang them from the branches
of my guardians, the dogwood trees,
and etch them on the leaves of the sycamore.
I will place them in bowls of glowing stones.

Tell it to the soft enfolding darkness
as the sun settles below your horizon.
I will watch for your stories by sunrise,
as the dawn washes over the hills.

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Gratitude List:
1.  Poem in Your Pocket Day: The farmer/poet’s heart is happy with all the shy children who came to read me poems in exchange for a packet of lettuce seedlings.
2.  Kind words, kind hearts.  Thank you, my friends.
3.  Fred the Cat
4.  Incentive
5.  That new featherbed–it’s like sleeping wrapped in a cloud.

May we walk in Beauty!

When I Became a Tree

Poem-A-Day Prompt 23: Write a Deep Poem.

On that day when I became a tree,
I felt first the stillness
dawning within me,
felt the silence grow.
Crystals of quiet
formed on my skin
like ice, like stone.

On that fierce and tender morning
there was a receding
within and without,
a tingle in my spine,
in the soles of my feet.

And then my roots began to grow,
fine hairs at first
feeling downward.  Down.
My ears and my eyes
went to my roots,
deep and deeper.
I ran into earth
on that day
when I went to the trees.

Roots snaked down into soil,
seeking deep layers of humus,
caves of small creatures,
seeking underground rivers,
the bones of the ancestors.

On that day when my roots flew
through the silence,
through depths of earth,
they sought the heat
at the heart of the Mother.

Then did my branches
rattle and whisper
among the stars.