Those Days

Many days and many afternoons I have spent strolling through the woods. A stream babbles to my left, only good at telling stories, but that is all right, for I am not in search of conversation. The trees and birds and flowers are my only audience, but I enjoy the brook’s ramble and the forest’s rustle while settling down contentedly to hear their story. I, too, can be a storyteller.

A print in the muck here shows where the streambed tried to eat my shoe, and on the rock looming over the water’s meandering edge some dirt and crumbs tell of the pleasant breakfast shared with the birds. A few clumsy stumbles and a slippery slope here leads to a jumble of grumbling stones newly splattered with muddy hand and foot prints.

Frolicking and adventurous, I enjoy those days, endless stories combined with endless tellings. And all of them dwell within those romping, lounging, effervescent days.

Water Shadows

Stretched upon water, wake in absent light,

They waver and wander, hiding from sight,

Following suit of the sun, moon and stars,

Casting their shadows which reel in the dew,

Sails and with ropes and with ribs and with spars,

Fighting the swell and the light slinks from view.

As each shadow moves on must I wonder,

The sails and the ships my mind did ponder…

Lives of Trees

Each seed holds its own power

When burned, blown, carried, or cut

Each leaf its own rustle

When burned, blown, cut, or clipped

Each tree its own crackle

When burned, blown, clipped, or climbed

Its own cry

Its own course