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

Lotka Reflecting All (from the journal)

Chesapeake City Park

In the lost place,

many moments,

many greetings

from unknown plants, dragonfly,

and skipper who waits

patiently for the camera to open.

All eyes open,

inner eyes, too,

moving moments

shared.

Beauty shared.

New beauty

shared in the lost place.  8-17-15

Unseen waterbird

flies overhead

speaking in her

white water voice.  8-17-15

Wasp taking wood from

the old deck chair—

somewhere a nursery is expanding.  8-17-15

 

Emily

Did you know it then

when the words

touched the paper

that it was your voice,

your strong voice talking?

Rounded open letters letting

thought in, out,

barely touching paper.  8-17-15

Sumi-e

Little girl making peace at her study table.

Wide blue sky reflected in wide blue sea,

a yellow place for feet,

little girl feet.   8-17-15

Cloud-bird

hides in the sky.

From the pine

gray bird looks on.  8-17-15

Sasha in the wild world

with sharks

and Mallory.  8-17-15

Stacatto clouds below the film of cirrus.

Water.

But how?    8-18-15

The perfect lake

shadowed by the perfect woods.

Rabbit lives there.  8-19-15

Sometimes looseness comes,

a way of knowing, dancing in the unknown

emerging between paper and brush,

learning to touch,

to see between light and dark,

all coming to the palest

gray opalescence when dry,

Himalayan lotka reflecting all.   8-19-15

Morning opalescence—

fog, cloud, sea air moisten the upright pines.

Shades of white moving north.  8-20-15

The promise of blue

rising over the bare tree this morning

without gray bird.  8-20-15

The path is full—

beach rose buds, orange hips, green prickly pears,

the turning pines unto themselves.  8-20-15

The woods—old enough

to be dying.

Gray bird’s empty perch.  8-21-15 

Reflections on the soft lake greener

than the calm water

after the night of light and storm.   8-21-15

Where did this air come from that lights

my hair, my breath?

The world above,

the fast moving world of touch and go.  8-21-15

Night Storm

The sky goes all the way up,

peopled with cloud dreams.

And in the dark,

enough depth for light.  8-21-15

Orb weaver’s offspring

on my teacup saucer stepping

through spilled black Indian tea,

looking for a place to hide.  8-21-15

They were going somewhere

all in a rush,

altogether

on the same wing.  8-21-15

Single-winged Samara (from the journal)

Incomplete, Acer?
Single-winged samara spins.
Heavy-headed butterfly,
whole in the light.  5-4-15 

All these days—

how will they be counted

if there are no poems,

no breath revisited?  5-23-15

Cool with a bit of

warmth to the eye,

the sharpness of bird bites.  5-23-15

Tiny, through the green round,

the blue sky,

circled.  5-23-15

Does dragonfly hear

woodpecker’s far knock

in his circle of sun?

White on black, both.

Now, moved to silence.  5-23-15

Come back now to silence

and maples’ new rose leaves

perched over all like sentries

with wings and pointed caps

aloft on air, here

where doors are not closed.  5-23-15

A bit of time—

oak steps through,

marking heart steps,

the dark verticals

moving down.  5-23-15

Side-stepping

to get to the holes between the words,

to the river running of its own accord.  5-24-15

Shenandoah

The perfect place—

air, water,

memories wrapped

and unwrapped.

A thin snake

the thread through all,

facing us with

clear eyes.  5-30-15

The years flow by,

but right here time pools around this

air-bound rock that floats free

under my pen

turning the currents

back around.  5-30-15