“Sit with me. Your poisonous, vine-filled journey
will be worth your time. Oh, the secrets I’ll reveal!
The mystic moments of clarity that can be had on
my weathered slats of soft, warm wood.
Come, sit with me….”
I take one step forward, the pup whines, and I retreat.
Another day perhaps.
I remember reading that she hated hydrangeas.
Someone gave her a handful of purple blooms and she
threw them down on the stage because of her deep aversion.
Regardless of money or fame, I would never trade places
with a person who could hate hydrangeas.
Shadows of the future often
reflect phantoms of the past.
The rain falls with pounding determination.
Relentless in its pressuring tempo,
it persists for days—
bringing thick, foggy mornings that make
the yellow irises stand out like lanterns in the mist.
There you are in a seemingly unlikely spot,
tending to your babies the way I tended to mine.
You watch me, watching you, wishing gentle
thoughts and finally, walking away.
soft, blue skies
late sunsets
pink and yellow and red and purple
tender grass
rainy afternoons
thunderstorms
the smell of soil
cool mornings
shades of green
baby bunnies
a robin’s blue egg shell
carrots from the farmer’s market
The afternoon sun fell on the flowers,
casting a warm, golden, luminous embrace.
I envied them so.
Stone benches for faeries,
butterflies and
golden-feathered finches.
All those cold, grey months you slept so soundly in the frigid
silence of snow. I saw you in my day dreams and you are even
more stunning than I remembered.
How many things have you held?
How many hands have carried you?
How many lives have you lived?
My children laugh at me when I fall in love with items
like rusty colanders. But I know if they could speak,
the stories they would tell would be epic.
spanishwoods 