Category Archives: Nature

Between the rows of simple life where grows the finest harvest known
are hands of soil and aging skin that tender what in spring was sewn.

A dew drop heralds morning light enraptured in suspended grace,
whose world reflects the azure blue with love of smiling eyes and face.

Each pepper kindly tendered,
each pod and bean so lightly held,
each ripened red tomato vine caressed and in the moment meld.

Her hands of soil, on knees of clay,
beckon to this garden’s lay
to hush those thoughts of early frost
and bow in love where seeds were tossed.

Her whitened hair and wrinkled eyes
define an age her heart denies,
yet from this soil and giving ground
her ageless spirit picks what’s found
between the rows of garden there,
as angel bowed on knee, in care.

Spun in silence, a silver rhyme
stretched across a pedal’s pose,
captured small in non-assuming
glimpses of a summer’s rose,
whose fragrant folds in burgundy
entreat the kindest living heart,
who gently pulls a threaded line
that there upon sweet life takes part…
in morning’s captured dewdrop,
in midday’s buzzing busy bee,
in evening’s calm and respite…
no grander world or scale will see
or care to ponder longer,
or dream beyond with longing eye,
for by a gossamer thread and rose,
all life transcends us by and by.

Bow to time in passing tide,
as reed beneath the strong spring’s flow,
in desperate stance against the current,
fingers white not letting go.

Last summer’s ancient memory calls
of standing tall midst songs of thrush,
whistling in the breezes there
that call their tunes in quiet rush.

Autumn faded fast to winter’s
standing cold near bank and glade,
christened stiff in season’s charge,
a soldier of the browning blade.

Yet hope held fast for fervent spring
when last all dues were done,
that here amidst the daffodils
would sweetly hear the spring creek run,
that here the hard earned penance paid
would grant reward near burgeoned spring,
to rejoice “at last I’ve made it!”
while chickadees and warblers sing.

How cruel this unexpected life
that drowns him in the current now,
bound by winter’s run-off,
must to its raging currents bow.

Spring will let to mending roots
of hope now torn from place,
drawn from sun’s sweet giving life
to patch the straining tears that face
the distant threat of winter
while standing midst a summer’s seam
with only hope to focus toward
the healing of his hopes and dream.

Cruel the tide of season’s mix
upon this changing earth,
granting life and death through chance
twixt distant temporal poles of birth.