You attended my first breath,
I sat by you for your last
and everything in between
was how we were
in the world together.
How I miss you now.
I think I see your feet sticking
of my jeans, but it’s only me
wearing your shoes.
In the forest
a Mother Tree …
her spirit flies
as her sapling cries.
©poem and photo by caf
A Spring Birthday
When the violets
and Jack in the Pulpit awaken,
ferns unfold their bowed heads
and stand tall in frond wrappings,
trees pause in conversation to attend
to the yellow visions of Dandelions
and to Trout Lilies and May Apples
as they pray for the dead snake on the path.
You may say this is fantasy
caused by too much listening
to the whispers of a greening forest.
But she has come to rouse her sleepy soul –
to rise with spring and warming days
having been summoned by wind, river, stars and stones
to this holy place
to receive a new voice
to learn fresh songs
to birth a new dream for her life
and new hope for this aching world.
©photo and poem by caf
Continue reading “A Spring Birthday”
Moon Flower
I sat under the flower as she grew upon a vine of stars
in the night sky
her glistening white stamens
and yellow pistils
nestled among pink, purple, yellow and white softness of bloom.
Fragile
and calm in her unfolding
she offered her light to the world,
shyly, then boldly
then fully.
This blossom of the night
begins as a seed in darkness
and grows to full splendor under the sun,
a morning glory blooming at midnight in winter,
whispers hope of spring.
©photo and poem by caf
The Poet
Someone said the poet is dead
she was old and sick and died
But, I said, I went out
and saw her in the forest
among the trees.
No, they said,
she passed away
it’s in all the papers.
But that cannot be, I replied.
I saw her in the meadow
admiring the grasshoppers
and feeding them sugar water.
You’re wrong, they insisted.
She is no longer here.
She is not dead, I retorted
I heard her this morning
she wakened early and went to fly with the geese
Can you not hear her calling to the world
how we all belong
and live forever?
She is not gone while we remember to notice the fields
and the swans on the black river,
while we wake early to sing to the day.
She is not gone.
© poem and photo by caf
A Morning Blessing
In morning sunlight
in early winter
when hills are browning,
with mindful breath she breathes the wind
with sacred song she woos the waters
and begs the trees and the Spirit within
bless the beasts, she whispers
the possums, porcupines, woodchucks,
the birds and bugs and worms,
bears and bobcats
gorillas and fish,
and also, humans.
Bless the plants
who in winter store holy life
in their roots
and bring it forth as
new growth in the spring.
May all beings live their lives
free from turmoil
may the Earth be always blessed
Amen.
©photo and poem by caf
In The Forest
In the forest
she learned a language
a new vocabulary
not of words but of winds
of light, shadow texture,
a coverlet of silence
understood by newts and lichens
The moon knows this talk
and the clouds and sky
Where her spirit’s poetry
swells in worship of fern and toad,
a tumbling of wind words,
a rush of bird speak,
the language of sight and smell and touch.
A windy ocean in the trees
Spirits descending like fog,
The forest holds her grief and joy
And shadows by the front door
have no more power.
©photo and poem by caf
The Pumpkin Grower
Continue reading “The Pumpkin Grower”
Her Hands
Her hands are red, chapped, cold
big fingers, short nails.
She’s been hanging clothes on the line
in coldest winter again.
The sheets come in dried and frozen
stiff, fresh and breezy.
When they warm
everyone wants them on their bed.
Her hands are red, peeling, hot
big fingers, short nails.
She’s been rinsing the dishes
in boiling water again.
She’s stacked the foggy plates
into the dish drainer
where they dry instantly,
no germ stands a chance of survival.
Later, she takes up her crocheting
chapped, raw hands, no longer red
big fingers, short nails.
How delicately she maneuvers the threads.
Her wedding band wore through long ago
from too much floor scrubbing her daughter said.
A delicate diamond would look silly on
those wide fingers that never saw a manicure.
Hands that plant purple petunias, pull weeds
big fingers, short nails dirty and torn.
She scrubs them clean until they’re red.
They smooth my hair and say I love you.
© photo and poem caf
The Hummingbird’s Death
The hummingbird on the stone walk
outside my door
lay so still
I picked him up tentatively
thinking he was dreaming
but his eyes remained closed
and my eyes found tears.
What happened to you?
I whispered to his softness…
No answer
I buried him in my garden
near some sage
and placed a stone
to mark the spot.
By way of eulogy
I wished him joyous flight
and offered prayers of awe
that in my hand
I had held Magic wrapped in feathers.
©photo and poem by caf
Finding the Heart
She stood on stones in the creek crying
Someone asked why are there tears in all this beauty?
She answered
because the creek flows
the raven croaks
the wind sings to my heart.
This flesh that grew around my spirit
wants to dance in the rain
cry in the sun
roll in grass
quiver with aspens.
Why is this?
Butterfly answers
my spirit measures travel in and out of itself
in generations
and doesn’t count the miles
or wonder why.
It only knows it must travel.
Rain tells her
Stop managing your tears,
they are the way you find your heart.
©photo and poem by caf
Inside-out Art and Writing 