Downy flakes brush our cheeks
as we in winter’s beauty ski.
Such stuff as dreams are made of –
our little life rounded with sleep.
Winter
inspiration
Thanks
Thank You, November.
A walk in Arboretum –
a feast for the eyes.
Threshold
Within and without —
cross the threshold for new dreams
in the pulsing heart.
I came upon this lone door in a valley outside the town of LaConner, WA during a 2015 bike ride before the pandemic.
It was a treat to stop and ponder a displaced door in a rolling valley near an old cemetery with leaning tombstones.
Surreal.
But not nearly as surreal as 2020. We collectively crossed the threshold into a changed world.
What would be our attitudes? To get riled up by world chaos? Or to find moments throughout each day to be in the present moment? Easier said than done!
I lie on the grass to contemplate the sun filtering through our mountain ash tree. Sun sparkles through its pointed leaflets.
At night, I listen to the wind rustle its branches. Music! Our mountain ash uses two of my five senses: sight and sound. In fall and winter, I am surprised to learn that robins, blue jays, and black-capped chickadees become drunk on its fermented berries.
Must keep eyes open to witness the little winos.
And You? What activities or non-activities bring you joy?
May your one pulsing heart find you safe and happy!
Blue Adirondacks
Four blue Adirondacks in search of an audience.
The community is a-Twitter and a-Tweet: “What are you doing?”
Facebook. YouTube. TikTok. The technocracy of buzz.
Meanwhile, in the trees, robins trill Printemps melodies.
Descendants of dinosaurs, their tiny throats flicker ancient songs.
What are you not doing?
Bird Whisperer
Fickle, you flit from one bloom to the next,
sucking nectar
oblivious of tomorrows or yesterdays
and I wonder who is feeding whom.
My heart is grounded in this moment by your
Morse code chirps,
sassy chatter,
and aerial displays.
What is it you whisper to the flowers?
Cranes at Sunrise
Duwamish sunrise.
Honeyed rays slice drifting clouds.
Mirrored cranes lift praise.
Not a Truffle
She is random she is free and uncontrolled by time and space. The clock shatters when she appears.
She is the Muse, a butterfly offering on-again, off-again glimpses of light to those open to her inspiration. Try and catch her, but not with the nets of over-thinking. If I take a walk, ride my bike, she might return.
If I try too hard, she disappears. A muse, after all, is not a truffle to be rooted out from the earth by pigs and served up at the dinner table for $200 a pop.
In our time-starved world she is free to visit wherever, whenever and whomever she wants. Are you a Mother longing for time to write? Listen for her whispers even though you yourself may feel like a babe alone in the woods. Or you may actually be in the woods, walking a shoreline, standing in line at a subway station, at the check-out buying groceries.
It doesn’t matter where or when or how she shows up. Maybe you like to write at cafes in the early morning and you are halfway through your double Americano when an image, a sentence creeps in.
She shows up Anytime. Dawn, noon, dusk, midnight.
Is she fairy, is she mist?
All I know is that if I stay in the Now, silent in my head, hopeful in my heart, I might feel inspired. I have a notebook handy, a tape recorder. Whatever I am doing she just might show up.
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