Leave 'em in Stitches

If you look too closely
at life
you begin to see the seams,
the stitches which bind us together,
are not made of a single kind of thread
but are layer
upon layer
of differing threads,
each stitched by a different hand
as we each noticed
what was worth
saving.

Periwinkle in our shoes

We mistake this beauty
as a backdrop,
a static scene
against which we play
out our small tales,
believing our foibles
are somehow grander
than grandeur
until some place
shocks the system,
forcing the eyes to open
themselves to the majesty
of an oak
twice our wingspan
which captures our life
in one of its branches.
So we stand,
oak bark against our cheek
and periwinkle in our shoes.

One Day, in the Woods

I imagine the woodpecker
to be tapping out a message,
which carries over time
and distance
to where Spring's love
lies buried,
captured
by Winter's bitterness
and distance
until
the woodpecker's rhythm
is joined by the blatting
of the cackling goose
and the calls
of small children
searching for first blooms.
So Spring stretches her arms
and runs a finger
down the back of Winter's neck
and he melts.

28 Books you should read . . .

I don't normally do this but this link was too good not to share.

Enjoy

Where Hope Finds Me

I imagine hope
to be like other sub-atomic particles,
charmed and strange,
as it ricochets its way
through the human atmosphere,
looking to bond
with a host
who stands on frozen earth,
under azure skies,
arms upturned
and shivering slightly
at the thought
that today
is really
today.

In Spectrum

It is only a trick of light,
this moment at dawn
as the Earth rolls in
the light of the Sun,
but this shadow play
connects
this time
with time before
and allows my mind to see
what in full daylight
might cause concern
showered
in tangerine and alabaster
and allows me
to strip away
excess
and see
bare truth
but
it is only
a trick of light.

My Morning Tea

I imagine the flavor
to be jasmine
as I shuffle through
the leaves,
pale yellow yesterday,
the morning rain
has darkened them a shade.
The next block
smells of cranberry,
if only in my mind,
the deep reds of the oak
temp me with a spectrum
running amaranth near the trunk
to amber further out.
I carefully select a pile,
scooping them into a puddle
where I stand
until the water
permeates my shoes.
I squish away.
Happy.