• Poetry

    Mining the Bright Birds

    “ I strain towards the future, eyes focused on the far away past empty, quiet gray, like looking for a hummingbird in the snow. I squint at fine twig lines as they slice across white over green in front of the dormant sienna. I spy her there, a gemstone stately in her royal stance among the branches. It is no effort, truly, to find my way through buried days, if I but gentle my busy self, settle and sit, sip and settle, determine to welcome the daytime darkness while mining the bright birds.

  • My Poems

    Cacophony {a #poem}

    The chickadees are arguing using their mad voices to fight over the millet and sunflowers– Here’s a sweet ‘chirp’, there’s     an insistent, “cuh, cuh, cuh” and another voice–“chick-a-dee, dee, dee.” It’s a Bird Boardroom Brawl, voices of different timbres and tempo arguing about what’s on the menu. They sound as if they’re starving,  staking out their claim to dinner like it’s their last meal. Then zoom! they’re off to another branch, a new hiding place as evening winds down, and I wonder did their mother send them all to bed without supper  because they wouldn’t stop fighting? Ahhhh, they may never  get that millet meal until morning after all. ~~~~~…

  • Made Things

    How Creation Speaks

    I’ve been looking at pine cones a lot lately.  A book I’ve been reading makes me SEE things differently.  Makes me stop and pay attention to what’s at my feet, down close. Instead of stepping over, around and on what lies below, I’m starting to take time to notice what I see. When I went for a walk yesterday, I discovered there were a least 3 different kinds of cones within roughly 200 feet of my front door. There were rose-like, tightly bunched balls, prickly, layered missiles, and rounded, hard-edged cones from our cul-de-sac’s fir and cedar trees. I gathered them up, placed them on my deck railing, added twigs and lichen and this simple…

  • Poetry

    Homing Orb {a #poem}

    Sideways glancing, face atilt she watches, wondering at our wandering, solemnly sees our not-seeing.   How do we miss it– the faithful lumen bursting barren emptiness, sun’s reflection, co-anchoring the sky? Ignore her presence as she pauses over our shoulder?   Nurturing nightlight, she whispers to our worry, “Just Look Up,” Somberly sits in the quiet, as mothers are wont to do, waits for us to wonder anew, bear witness to her faithfulness and find our way home in the dark by her gauzy light. —– photo, Google Images