I am struck by the teal color of the wall and the texture of galvanized steel. I am moved by the glint on the screw and remember learning it was called a “philip’s head”. Thinking about my husband Philip, I wonder how his flight was to San Francisco. Recalling the seafood we ate in California on our last trip, I contemplate what to make for dinner. While deciding to drive to the market for shrimp and walking away from the wall, I notice an older woman staring at me quizically.
Who’s walked along your path?
Who’s stepped along your grassy edges?
Who’s pulled an errant leaf from an overhanging limb?
Explain the soft sense of comfort that
blankets my spirit when we walk together–
or say nothing and know that I love you
for your booming silence.
Blushing coral roses,
you always look so dressed up.
Watchful and weary, you stood motionless
as your image was captured.
Is your spirit still free?
Red leaves touch my cheek in the blowing wind
and wave farewell as they pass.
Hovering above a field of goldenrod,
the fog lifted slowly and floated away.
Swaying slightly in the cool morning breeze,
the stalks readied themselves for a better view.
Old, wise panes,
what do you choose to reflect
and what do you choose to absorb
into your darkness?
Listening to an important financial discussion,
hoping to understand and process the information–
my thoughts kept returning to the zinnias
in my mother’s late summer garden.
At what point do we know that we’ve arrived?
You are so very perfect
in your imperfection.
spanishwoods 