The poet's net

Colors, appealing
though they may be,
cannot disguise
true purpose here:
to trap the fluid silver flash,
remove it from
the liquid sky
through which it swims;
to stop the life
that pulses through the gills;
to turn those living embers
into ash, dissect, de-bone,
and serve them on a plate
to tempt a dwindling appetite,
or tease a jaded palate
with yet another taste
of possibility.

Sympathy pains

Though Vermont was not
my childhood home,
I quickly fell in love
as an adult;
and, as a mother,
even from a distance,
will hurt when her own child
is wounded,
I feel the new scars
on her landscape
as my own.

Dining on anise and honeysuckle

Though still raw, pink and lean,
their golden trumpets not unfurled,
the honeysuckle buds are triggering
a rash of memories:
the sweetness at their base;
the slipping of the teeth
as we bit through fragile petals
to suck the fragrant honey
from each tip; the pure delight
of that sweet treat,
garnered from the wild
while still a child,
wandering through Ohio woods,
seeking the wild anise and sharp clover;
chewing on those grainy stalks,
the one so sweet, the other's spice
so sharp ...

That equalizing effect

Even the most ordinary scenes
take on a grace on foggy mornings:
I wonder if it's the fog's equalizing
that draws attention to the beauty
of the mundane... Once we stop
thinking some animals are
more equal than others; some scenes
have more value than others;
some humans are worth more
than others,
the world --and life --
have a way of becoming
infinitely more appealing

Change and the apple, birthing

Does the flower miss her petals
when they drop to the ground
and the belly that remains
begins to swell?
And when her skin
begins to stretch and thin,
does it ache, the taut pull
screaming like a muscle?
And the blush
that flows over the cheeks;
the sharp split of separation,
once ripe --
does she resist, or rejoice?

Enchantment

Enchanted invitation;
welcoming the inner Divine,
a softness,
an opening of the heart
to what is being borne in us
and born in us each moment,
always new, always awakening,
always precious;
a wonder
that is music,
that is becoming,
that is now,
that is Love

Going with the flow

What is the source
of impulses?
Why would I
suddenly decide
to make another spirit doll
and give it to a friend?
Why would I spend an evening
carving faces out of Fimo;
why would I shop
for beads and buttons,
fabric and yarn,
thinking "this is fun;
let's do some more!"
I'm learning not to question --
but it's so 70's, you know,
to just roll up your sleeves
and go with the flow...