What the Creek Knows

Whether flowing through patches of sunlight,
or drifting through deep summer shade,
whether gliding over rocks and stones,
or parting for the slick darting fishes
or for the paddling of thick, webbed feet,
whether tumbling from heights,
or lingering on the flatlands,
in rain, in wind, beneath starlight,
in snow, the creek has but one guideline:
How easy can I let this be?

Turning Point

Even though the cloudy sky subdued them,
the colors of the meadow caught my eye.
How subtly, I thought, the seasons change,
the Black-Eyed-Susans giving way to goldenrod,
the daisies bowing to the Queen Anne’s lace.
Already the green of the trees is beginning
to move into shades of olive here and there.
So I let this flower-strew field paint itself
into my heart, a portrait of summer
at its turning point, a reminder to cherish
each moment’s beauty, those past
and those that the moment hints will come,
and most of all, and always, this one,
before my eyes right now.

Light at the End of the Road

You never know when you start out
what your journey will bring.
Anything you can imagine
is possible, and then some.
It’s all a gift, you know,
a world for you, to explore
your choices, to decide who
you will be, to discover
what you’re made of.
Hold onto your hope and
keep your faith, remembering
that, regardless, light shines
at the end of the road.

Turn, Turn, Turn

Standing in this spot six months ago
I could hardly remember
that the bleak and frozen landscape
could give rise to this,
to trees luxuriant with leaves
and seeds, to velvety grass,
to a field of tasseled corn,
to moist warm air, filled
with birdsong and the fragrance
of summer. And now,
standing in this spot,
it’s hard to imagine
that in a handful of weeks
it will again return to sleep
beneath heaped blankets
of shimmering snow.
Yet here is the vision of it,
clear in my mind, and of springtime,
and autumn as well, the seasons blending
into the whole of this now,
where crows call and the air
is perfumed with summer.

Feeding Birds in the Rain

I dip my finger in the nectar to be sure it had cooled
enough to fill the hummingbirds’ suddenly empty feeder.
It had. They’re going through it quickly these days,
storing up extra energy for their upcoming migration.
I slip on my pink rain jacket, pull up the hood,
and walk, giggling, through the rain, the wet grass
tickling my bare feet. When I return to my kitchen
with the feeder, I see a bee has come along for the ride.
I catch him in a jar and take him outside.
As I carry the filled feeder up the hill to its pole, a memory
rises in my mind of Holly, her big umbrella in hand,
walking through a downpour after tending to her chickens.
I smile that we both feed birds in the rain.

A Clump of Tiny White Flowers

At first I mistook them for fleabane,
both having such tiny white flowers,
But as I neared them, I realized they
were something else, something
I had never seen before, inviting
me to take a closer look. “Oh my!
Petals like an orchid and wearing
such delicate dabs of purple!” I say
to myself as I gaze at the little flowers.
I never fail to be amazed at
the intricacies of the world,
at the touching, exquisite details.
It makes me hold my breath in awe
and to feel honored somehow
just to see them, right here, before me.

To Live in a World of Flowers

Suppose they have to agree,
before they can live as butterflies,
to a life that spans mere days.
But as compensation, they are offered
the freedom of flight on beautiful wings
through a world of brilliant flowers
in every color their eyes can see
and each one a feast of nectar so sweet
it would make them giddy with delight,
and every butterfly you see said Yes
to the bargain. Who could blame them?
Would you not have have said Yes, too?

The Flower of the Sun

The sun behind the flower of the sun
washes its light into the halo of petals
that shoot in joyous yellow flames
from the spiraling seed-birthing center,
feeding it, that it may feed others in turn,
a metaphor and mandala.
Shine on, bright flower. Shine on.

Two Riders, Heading Home

May I always remember, no matter what comes,
that once upon a time I visited a place
where people rode horses across lush deep valleys
just to ride, crossing the wide, rocky creek at the shallows,
then climbing the trail through the leafy woods toward home,
the sound of the creek playing in rhythm somehow
with the clopping of the horses. A few birds called.
But except for that, there was silence, and warmth
and a breeze, and the world felt alive and perfect,
and watching the riders, I felt joyous peace.

Own It

 On those days when you just feel so great,
when your whole body feels so fine,
when the sky is so clear and the sun is so warm,
and everything’s singing its song,
you go right ahead and strut your stuff, babe.
Dance through the world like you own it.