Gabled roof faded red to gray,
tiled moss curled
against a century of winds
whistling to get in.. Thyme
and vines compete to claim their space.
Trod bare from barn to kitchen door
the yard wears its foot print paths
like welcome mats.
My mother’s grandmother
once tended wood-fed fires
that warmed this hearth and hearts
for miles around. I take a faded apron down
from hand hewn wooden hook, begin again
to knead the dough, to bake the bread,
to tend the fires that light our lives
and make this house a home.
“ And so it was indeed: she was now only ten inches high, and her face brightened up at the thought that she was just the right size for going through the little door into that lovely garden..” (from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland)
A moment stolen from a hectic day,
No passion greater
than the senses touched, separately and at once. In awe
she stood inside her head, remembering the greenest green,
emerald, jade and all the hues between. The forest scents
waft in; air and ground combine. Nature’s sweet perfume
is beckoning. In the midst of forest bliss, a waterfall sings
its song; the breeze joins in. All creatures great and small
hum along. Alice, noted for her taste for peace, sups deeply
of this brief repast, a grand refreshment. Alas, life intrudes,
but what a joy to sense the textures of bark and fern, and
feel the cat’s paw touch of sun.
A moment spent in quiet peace has the power to change a day
……………………..if we allow our cares to drift away
At the ending of the year
when recollections travel far
from present day,
Time passes fast
and all too soon we see
the gray, those silver strands
that streak the gold.
etch wizened hearts. So much
is lost to gravity
and we have used up
all excuses. Still we rise again
and keep the lesson,
freed from inner prisons
by new vision
that turns foes to friends
as fears retreat, felled
by the majesty
The snow flocked art of shrub and lawn
excites me though it is an aggravation.
What fun to see the fluff and blow
of snowflakes dancing with the wind.
Time now to take me to the shed,
get the shovel from its bed
and convince the knees, not the back
The robin sings though green is gone
so who am I to carry on
because the weatherman
spoke with fork’ed tongue?
Come friend, forget the foiled plans;
let’s be children once again. There’s
just enough to make a snowman
if we make him thin.
In the silence of a winter night
when even the stars are sleeping,
one imagines the joyful song
of a snowflake on its way from heaven,
or the sound of mist muffled
by the thick white counterpane…
Earth tucked in by a loving hand
and everyone, the laborer and the lazy,
exploring the hinterland of dreams.
No pin dropping, no feather drifting,
so quiet that even a pine needle
makes a thud
as it bumps into the pale glow
of a moonbeam
tracking the scratch
of my pen.