Wild Poems

Fireworks. People love em or hate em. I would fall into the latter category. Mostly for my dogs who suffer through what has become two weeks of inexplicable (to them) and random explosions that go on into the early hours of the morning.

Hard rain. The kind that pounds the ground and splashes up caking low leaves in mud spattering dirt into mosaic designs on higher foliage. Five minutes later... Bright sun. Clear delicious air, the kind that only comes after rain. Wind, even blue sky amidst the dazzling clouds.

This is a joyful poem.   I was going to write about poppies. About the way they shoot skyward then burst into color so rich that you feel it as well as see it.   It was to be a simple poem about being in the moment. The poppies a lovely example of something glorious and fleeting, as their paper thin petals last but a few days.

The birds start before dawn when there is just a hint of light in the dark sky. I like to think they are greeting the day although there is a lot else going on to be sure. From territory disputes to nest building laying, incubating, or hatching calling to one another or, I’m just certain, singing because it’s morning.

It doesn’t matter how many decades I’ve been doing it. Every single year, when I plant vegetable seeds the size of a pin head into soil I am mesmerized and astonished when they sprout. Some are tenderly nursed along indoors establishing some roots before they are set in the garden-- exposed, then, to elements that both hinder and encourage their growth.

Solstice is a powerful teacher: the trickster who invites you to go out sledding on a moon-less night. Daring you to take a risk, to lean in, to stay with what is uncertain and unseen. She whispers in your ear as the sled starts to move, Your vision limits you here. Your desperation to see keeps you from seeing. In this place, we see not with our eyes, but with our whole being.