For the peace and promise of a sunrise. The quickening of breath that comes when we take in the beauty of our surroundings. For the mystery and humility of daring to see how we are all connected. For the opportunity, over and over again, to choose joy. For waking up…

The time between A wet fall has stretched out the season. Even still there are trees with deep green leaves alongside trees with leaves that have long since departed alongside leaves in their autumn glory: bright brilliant hues or orange, gold, and deep red. Often this happens for a week…

All You Need To Know This gift of human form and brain, able to reach such depths, able to look within, is also destined to lurch from past to future, sometimes only briefly visiting the present in its wanderings. I sigh. Another deep breath. Calling myself back to the world…

I wish you peace I wish you peaceful silence at least for moments in this world that holds so much volume. I wish for you moments of bliss when it is quiet inside and outside of you. Perhaps it will come late at night or in the pre-dawn morning. Perhaps…

What words can be said, really,
in the face of wind and water so strong
it tears down buildings or submerges them?
At the same time, fires rage unquenched out west
despite all that water swirling many miles away.

Sometimes all I can think to do is go outside.

When people or politics press too close.
When this country glaringly misaligns with what I hold dear.
When time feels slippery in its passing.

Sometimes all I can think to do is go outside.

There is no way there are golden retrievers in the Amazon.
I watch my wooly golden girl on humid days
as she walks slowly, heavily, even her whiskers droop.
She gives me a mournful look as we get back to the house
clearly asking if we can move further north than our Minnesota home.

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.