Dear little rose buds, you were the only two left
after the deer dined in the early humid haze.
I am tempted to pick you but I take a photo
instead and hope to see you again tomorrow.
In my mother’s garden
Tag Archives: writing
The past
Sometimes I want to go back to another time.
Nostalgia wraps it’s warm carress around my thoughts—
and I am tricked into thinking it was all better in the past.
Fill my cup
with coffee, or hot chocolate, tea, or fresh cider—
humility, curiosity and enlightened thoughts of peace—
dragons, or mermaids, or fey fairies with wings…
Bend
Reeds bowing gently in the wind—
you know exactly how to bend
so as not to break into pieces.
Nap
A man (that I love) once told me:
“People who sleep in the middle of the day
aren’t taking life seriously.”
I climbed the loft steps to take an afternoon nap,
and dreamily thought: “He might just be right.”
Blue Brick Composition
I cannot sustain my attention in a math class,
or a hit television show, not on a business lecture,
or a religious sermon, not in a broadway musical
or a classical ballet.
But I could watch the shadows dance along these bricks for hours.
Treasure
A little boy’s toy,
turned into a man’s treasure;
passed onto his young son,
and now put away to
emerge on a bright summer day
in the distant future for another.
On the shelf right now
books by Sibella Court
two quarters, a nickle and three pennies
very tiny bunny
a cup with pencils, pens, brushes and a knife
bracelet with green stones
birch bark
frosted glass mushroom and a sparrow’s skull
Ego: east meets west philosophies
Recently, I was asked , “What makes you special?”
My first peaceful thought was simply, “nothing”.
And my second, “Does that make me special?”
Reflections
Epilogues of improbable epilogues,
held in rebellious reflections
of all that still remains possible.
spanishwoods 