Thimbleweed seed pods and Epimedium, June 2026

 

Redbud in March.

From this place

the long ago days stretch out,

a meandering line of memories.  3-30-26

Shadows on the journal.

In between, silky lotka shines

and the pen slides.  2-23-26

 After not being able to open this blogspot since 2018, I seem to be able to post. 

The snow recedes.

Empty circles around warm plants now.

The retted leaves are moist.  2-16-26

On Gravity's Whisper

Moving northeast—

sky feather

fanning out.  7-17-18

Last night’s rain

drops from

myrtle blossoms.  7-17-18

First sun

is broken by honeysuckle into

yellow pieces.  7-17-18

My resolute, stalwart friend is sick now.

He writes, “I look forward to meeting Maya one day.”

An anchor thrown into the future.  7-17-18

After the rain—

puccoon, wood poppy—tall,

floating on the cool morning air.  7-17-18

Three vultures

circle overhead.

One is small.  7-18-18

The numbers at the end

of the poems have gotten out

in front of me,

me still writing back in

the olden days.  7-18-18

Morning wren and mourning dove

sing counterpoint. 

Catbird and I enjoy the music.  7-18-18

Where does it go, the light

coming through honeysuckles leaves

after it comes into my eyes?

A dance of moments as we turn on gravity’s whisper.  7-19-18

Leaving the madness

inside with the news.

Outside the world

moves as it should—

sharp bird calls

in the soft breeze.  7-19-18

All new this morning,

rosy sharons in a ring

touched by bees.  7-19-18

Catbird on the hammock

looks at me, also gray and black.

The feathered shawl.  7-19-18

Cortright asked for shadows.

I gave them to Kent,

the second attempt.  7-19-18

Above thought

bubbles rise

open with colors,

words.  7-19-18

“Who are you?” catbird asks from the myrtle.

Who am I?

A fellow breather of air, threading moments, tiny beads

on the long necklace of memory.  7-20-18

Fortunate Garden

Washington flowers,

Hannah’s flowers

dance on the screen, perfect

compositions of joy. 

The old one, new and loose as a summer gale,

blown from a Renaissance artist here

to waiting hands ready to paint

with breath.  7-24-18

Maya’s dark day recedes.

The rain stays,

but sadness lifts with the promise

of a wrap and liquid watermelon.  7-24-18

After days of rain,

the earth breathes.

In the morning sun—

dust and decay heavy

on morning air.  7-26-18

From the other side of morning,

waves of cicadas dry out

one at a time.  7-26-18

The honeysuckle volunteer

in a plastic pot reaches for the table.

A rain response.  7-26-18

Three kids

happy to see each other

bounce up the stairs.  7-26-18

Moved by the air,

creepers shed their dried bits,

whole again in intent if not in form.  7-26-1-8

Morning conversation with catbird. 

He speaks.

I listen.  7-26-18

Tim Rice

My old classmate put away in a home.

A year ago he posted to a photo of my cat

resting on my arm, “Aww.”  7-26-18

Pink spiral leans this way.

No sun yet to pull her gaze away.  7-27-18

The perfect morning

down Soapstone

yellow light

through green trees.  7-27-18

The thick air

belongs to cicadas—

their summer world

rising and falling

in waves.   7-27-18

Three kids.

Three screens.

One is on the bed.  7-27-18

Speaking up over

cicadas, the long

winded redbird.  7-27-18

Grape ivy moves across crab apple,

dead now,

assaults the maple.  7-27-18

The last of buttermilk cloud

moves east

in a blue sky.  7-27-18

  

Moving air,

moving catbird,

a streak of chipmunks.  7-27-18

Who is awake?

Honeysuckles.

Cicadas.

Wood poppies, yellow,

but still standing tall.  7-28-18

Does the light learn anything

moving through honeysuckle leaves?

Shared giggles?  7-28-18

 

The moment of sideways sun

is gone.  Catbird speaks,

sun on his head.  7-29-18

Skipper on the sharon,

carpenter bee

moves on.  7-29-18

Unknown winged insect in the plant bottle.

I lean the bottle over under the hammock and he

follows the water out the opening.

There’s a story here.  7-29-18

Moving like the wind

on the beach, cicada calls

surf the trees.  7-29-18

Heavy with color,

red bird rides

a red wind into

the green tree.  7-19-18

On the speaker phone,

happy voices playing

Animal Jam.  7-29-18

Red bird’s voice

is as sweet as

the warm blue sky.  7-29-18

Carolina wren is repeating red bird’s

two note statement.

Counterpoint in two dialects.  7-29-18

Tufted titmice

preen under grape ivy

mountain.  7-29-18

A long snake on the maple branch rests

after his jump down from the roof.

He tastes the air with his tongue.  7-29-18

Sweet morning moist

with night’s perfume.

A bird pips and then

a long wait.  7-30-18

The sky has come

all the way down this morning.

We breathe moisture,

soft and gray.  7-30-18

Who needs the news?

Outside wood poppies’

last leaves yellow.  7-30-18

Mid summer

hibiscus’ first leaves

yellow.  7-30-18

On the orange flagstones,

closed sharons,

rolled tight as cigars,

lavender now.  7-30-18

Speaking the Old Language

Out of the soft morning,

mourning dove calls

sounding lost.  6-17-18

Chipmunk with grass in his mouth 

stops at my foot.

Kitty watches from the window. 7-17-18

Summer flows over the sitting poet,

the creeper-caught sun

rests below.  7-1-18

All my forever poems

echo catbird, redbird

speaking the old language.  7-2-18

Below the river,

far beyond the Glade,

mourning dove touches

the morning softness

with her own softness.  7-2-18

Summer moves across

planes of columbine—

leaf miners tunneling.  7-4-18

The long winter wait is for this—

straight morning sun pausing,

coming through pinwheels,

pausing long enough to notice,

to receive.  7-4-18

The first moment outside—

redbird is chirping.

And from the west, a response.  7-6-18

In the gray light

waiting to be pink,

today’s rose-of-sharon.  7-6-18

The teenage raccoon on the patio

is bigger than Stella. Between growls,

Stella puffs herself up.  7-6-18

Preening in the old crab apple,

fledgling cat bird

in the sun.  7-8-18

Mourning dove,

morning sun,

honeysuckle’s curved leaves.  7-8-18

In another month

the ringing in my ears will be gone,

replaced with crickets.  7-8-18

Red Beacons at the Edge of Hearing

Two letters.

Two poems.

Eight pages of journal.

Sixty-one years of comfort—

Louella’s handwriting.  6-12-18

 

Here’s a morning that

holds true—creeper’s

pinwheels stirring the sun.  6-14-18

Under the river of thin clouds,

swift pivots left then right.  6-14-18

Longley said to write it

even if it was the only thing—

red birds talk to each other this soft morning,

red beacons at the edge of hearing.  6-15-18

The morning sweetness,

a round table,

the chair that fits my back.  6-15-18

The firefly lands on my hand,

a tiny weight to carry a big light.  6-15-18

Talking,

three crows overhead.

Two land on the white pine.  6-15-18

Chipmunk with grass in her mouth

stops at my foot.  Kitty watches

from the window.  6-17-18

Precious

the light that travels,

the light that rests within.  6-15-18