Arrival..

The early morning sun shines on the
diamond dew of the spring grass,
coaxing me down to the pond.
I sink my body down on the soft, wet earth.
I wait with a full, warm heart.

The red winged blackbirds  dance
up and down on the dead dried stocks
of yesterdays reeds.
They scream with excitement
at new life rising from the dark brown water.


The swallows swing low and
scrap the water,
snatching some nourishment from
the skin of the pond.

The old boat sits half beached on the shore.
I can hear the squeals of the summer children,
and the gentle plop of the oars,
that starts their adventure.

 As I sit,
breathing in the new green life,
My face warmed by the sun,
My ears full of the grateful sounds.
I prepare a gift for you.


I pick the first soft shoots of reeds
rising from the muddy bottom
of this every spring pond.
The sweet, precious green
rising from the deep muddy pond.

I weave a basket for you.

I will take the smoke from the fire
and the ashes of the past,
And place them carefully in the basket.
I will set the basket afloat on the the pond.

I will wait for your arrival. 

Nx

the gaps...

There it is.
In the space between the notes.

There.
In between the last whisper of the out breath
and the first feelings of inspiration in the next.

There.
In the spaces between
the thoughts and the convince.

There.
In the space after the last word spoken,
and before the first word heard.

There.
In the space between the foot lifting
and the foot sealing itself to the earth.

There.
In the space between the thought and the action.

There it is.

Nx

such a lovely love poem.....

How shall I hold my soul
to not intrude upon yours?
How shall I lift it beyond
you to other things?
I would gladly lodge it with
the lost objects in the dark
in some far still place that
does not tremble when you tremble.

But all that touches me,
 you and me,
plays us together, like the bow
of a violin that from two
strings draws forth one voice.
On what instrument are we strung?
What musician is playing?
Oh Sweet song.

Rainier Maria Rilke

the eagle calls.....

The eagle calls.
My breathe stops .....I feed on the sound.
There again. 
A quick inhale.
A small burst of air escapes from top of my heart.


My throat opens.
An opening that hears no difference,
Between the eagles wild call out to sea and mine.

A saddened plea to never leave.

The eagle glides effortlessly over the beach.

Searching.          Nx

rooted like trees...

If we could surrender
to the earth's intelligence,
We could rise up
rooted like trees.

Ranier Maria Rilke