So sad

Drawn to the color,
to the memory of childhood art projects,
of scratching through black ink
to reveal bright crayoned luminescence,
I take the time to focus in,
to gently scan
the messages left here,
to wonder at the inferences made.
Drinking in
the wonder of it,
drifting across the surface,
the blues,
the neon pinks,
my eye is caught
by a delicate white inscription
and drawn by this light counterpoint
back into compassion:
So sad,
it says --
So sad.

Greeting that which swims within

We meet so rarely,
you and I --
not just because
we tread such different paths,
but also --
even when you do appear,
so much of you remains submerged
I might not even notice:
sometimes you're just a shimmer
on the surface of the depths
I really must explore, if -- as I claim --
I long to know you more fully...

This idle chain

These ties we've forged
will not be tried while lying here:
A chain that doesn't
grip or hold
is a boat in drydock --
quite lovely to be sure,
but no-one's testing her mettle
when she's resting and unused.
How will we know
that weakest link won't break
if we don't grab on to something;
don't feel the ache, the tension and the pull?

Is it enough?

Is it enough for me to tread
the path that opens here before me now;
to wander slowly down the trail,
acknowledging the spirits in the trees
and wishing blessings on the birds
that crowd their branches;
to pause and watch the otter
as she slithers from the pond,
across the gravel, to the sea...
Is it enough -- for now, at least --
to honor what is, instead of always
working toward what's coming?

With blues and shadows

In stillness,
let the blues echo;
let shadows
drop their dark reminders
into your depths.
Drift lightly,
floating in the memories.
Trail your fingers
in the water
and feel the safety
of the tether that anchors you
to all that is other;
to all who also struggle
with blues
and shadows...

A lion, caged

When anger and judgment
rise within us,
fog closes in;
horizons narrow.
Dark and light
like fight and flight
drop moody bars
across my visual field,
obscuring truth
behind a corrugated screen
and soul becomes a lion,
caged and roaring at the wind.

In trouble, transformation

What jewels are these,
embedded in your bark?
What beetles,
or stones, perhaps,
flower here beneath your skin;
sweet rubies, whose smooth
and sudden aberrations
give texture and color
to the crown of your existence?
What tragedies and challenges
have transformed this simple life
into a work of art,
whose depth and beauty
compels me to stop
and bathe my eyes in wonder?