Category: Summer 2023

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 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.

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.

 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.

“Only in quiet waters do things mirror themselves undistorted.
Only in a quiet mind is adequate perception of the world.”
~Hans Margolius

The deeper your contentment, the calmer your mind.
The calmer your mind, the clearer your perception.
The clearer your perception, the more beauty you see.
The more beauty you see, the more ecstasy you feel.

Seek contentment.

Along the roadsides now, the summer wildflowers dance.
I walk ankle deep in them, naming them as I go – red clover,
daisy, Queen Anne’s lace, butterfly weed, and tiny yellow ones
whose name I do not know. The air is fragrant with their scents
and the scents of the grasses and of the corn in the fields they line.
Earlier today I learned that to make a single pound of honey, bees
must visit two million flowers. “Here they are! Here they are!”
I call to all four corners as I twirl in joy beneath the early August sun,
laughing because, of course, the bees already know.

In this one instant of reality
a delicate swallowtail lights
on the blazing red of an azalea,
just inches from my face,
for a sip of nectar from its central
circle of tiny flowers, the sun’s
hot light drenching it all so that
the colors burn themselves
into my mind even before
the swallowtail rises to vanish
in a dance in the far trees.

Be a world-tipper, one who stands tall with arms flung wide,
trumpeting your joy.
Be the one who makes the difference,
who turns the tide from dark to light,
who brings in the dawning of happiness.
Color the world with your twinkle and shine. 
Give a hoot, give a wink, give a word, give a smile.
Stuff your pockets with kindness and pass it out to strangers. 
Scatter love as freely as popcorn; there’s always plenty more.
Be the bright bloom beside the dusty road,
and sing out your deep-throated joy. 
Go ahead: Tip the world in life’s favor.

“Take all you want,” my neighbor said.
as we drove in his old golf cart to the far corner
of the farm where they grew beneath the power lines.
They hung heavy and gleaming from thorny stems
that rose into the sky or hung in tangled brambles
that wound in twists to the ground. I had to move slowly
and carefully as I reached for one after another,
planning the trajectory of my hand’s travel,
thorns finding my bare arms anyway, and
me not caring at all, a few scratches seeming
a small price to pay for such rare treasures.
Red-winged blackbirds and robins called from the trees
at the property’s edge, the breeze from them licking
my face as the high sun blinded me and burned
my skin. But the berries were jewels, nearly
falling into my hand as I touched them, making
a soft plumping sound as I gently dropped them
into my bowl, and I kept on until I got them all,
every last perfectly ripe one. A few, of course,
went straight to my watering mouth as well.
Some of them are frozen now, and will wait
until Christmas to be made into pie. And some
became jam and glisten from the centers
of thumbprint butter cookies, a gift of thanks
and gladness for my neighbor, the very least
that I could give in exchange for the gift
of this memorable hour.

Today is one of those “keeper” days,
the kind you put in your memory bottle
to uncork when winter’s grown long,
just to remember that perfection is possible.
So I stand here, feeling the breeze
on my cheek, the warmth of the sun
on my arms, inhaling the fragrances
of water, sand, wild carrot, and trees,
listening to the lapping of the waves
against the shore, to the whisper
of dancing leaves. From around the bend
where white floats guard the little beach,
the laughter of children rises like birds
into the clear, sparkling air, sending me
back to childhood. And I add those scenes
to my memory bottle, too, the ones
where time stood still and every moment
tasted like honey. Ah, it will be a fine wine,
this one, holding the flavors of the golden days
when life was rich and full, and absolutely nothing
was lacking.