those well-intentioned ambitions,
those handed down superstitions,
those necessary nods of permission
melt, like mushrooms in the moss
Aging
Tag Archives: writing
On the window sill
sea shells and sea rocks
frosted glass mushroom
tiny sitting rabbit
sparrow’s skull
miniature moose
slice of spanish wood
orange vase
a small brass plate
and a crystal cloche
The marsh in summer
This morning I walked by the marsh, hoping to see the heron and the sleek water snake. Red winged black birds cried out to each other and perhaps even to me. Small rabbits scurried beneath the brush and I spotted a dragonfly hovering above blue reflections of sky.
I started to feel philosophical, somewhat meloncholy and a little nostalgic, for all that is found and seen and appreciated and sometimes, overlooked.
Which one are you?
The one that waves from a speeding train?
The one that walks in the drizzling rain?
The one that sits in a darkened room?
The one that speaks to the fullest moon?
The one that weaves a yellow daisy chain?
The one that moves marking lost terrain?
The one that sleeps through raging thunderstorms?
The one that wakes to warn the world of thorns?
Daisies in July
When I walked this path in the winter, you were sleeping silently. And when the snow landed on my lashes, I sometimes would think of your white petals swaying in the breeze. You are such a welcome sight to my walks in July.
Nightfall at my mother’s house
The blue hour wraps around me, seeps through lace curtains
and wistfully waves farewell as darkness falls and the day
comes to a gentle close.
Parents and Children
One solid thread running beside us,
hanging between us–
linking your life to mine.
So fragile and delicate,
our futures swing, suspended by
colored strings with glitter,
with beads, day dreams and echoes
of long forgotten lullabies.
Blue Butterfly
If you could come to life, I would set you free.
The Sky in Summer
renegade watercolor shades
of blues and pinks–
lilacs in the sky,
violets on the horizon–
a suggestion of moons,
the taste of soft pink summer plums
waiting to be savored
Shades of Green
When I am very old, I want to remember the shades of green in a meadow where horses grazed and hawks cried in the distance the day I dropped her off for a long weekend. I want to taste the ice cream we had at a roadside shop and hear the echo of the pup’s bark on the rolling hills. I want to stamp the feeling of freedom and contentment into my soul and keep it safe and protected forever.
spanishwoods 