A Voice for Small Victories

If I write only what I know
I will save my ink for autumn,
No longer am I summer’s child,

Spring,  I welcome it
but only as a spectator.
I watch it and smile fondly
for I have been there.

Winter is a concept
I’m not yet ready
to embrace.

September through November
is my milieu.  Early on
the flowers still in bloom,
and at the end, snowflakes are falling.

Bless these things
that call my pen to action,
but what about this hunger
to make peace more
than mere abstraction?

Is it poverty of language
or fault of culture that leaves me
searching for the perfect elocution
of my dreams?

Look past these words and imagine
beyond the fields of blood,
past all occluded vision
past the generals’ perverted missions

and see the peace
that can exist, that must exist,
first in the minds of poets
then flowing from their pens.

Imagine the constancy of water
changing rock  and celebrate quietly

these small and deathless victories
that lead to peace.

Considering Superiority

trickles across field
and lawn
trees nod their heads
as branch tips touch
in harmony

flicker code
but to each other
I think they giggle
as they gather

why wouldn’t they?
the breeze
is light and warm
and they are free
to do what fireflies do
to be

and we who walk upright
and work with tools
spin our dreams
in the dying light of day
that we
might live so peacefully

Projecting our Rest

A seed
in warm ground,
the corn has sprouted
two little leaves, emerald
against the brown earth,
calm under starlight
and sun.  The wind lulls them
to sleep;  the rain quenches
their thirst. Rich loam anchors
their lovely outstretched feet.
A scarecrow with heart of straw
stands guard against pestilence.
Even so, milkweed and vetch
threaten the very existence
of this green and gold dream.
Like the corn
we celebrate Spring
but we will not rest
until the harvest is in.

Hearth Fires

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.

Alice Drifts into Her Screensaver

 “ 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