Coyote Wind

Jan Wild Moon

Coyote Wind

Did you hear the wind last night
howling up the creek
whistling in the snowy, twig shaped shadows
of January’s full moon?

Did you see the moon
last blustering night
brazenly brightening the deep sky
dark of clouds?

One time, when the gale quieted
and all sound was frozen silent
I slipped outside in time to see
a Screech Owl fly stage front shrieking
“Wild, wild everything is wild!
Everything is wild!”

The wind rose again as I huddled under a tree
It pushed me through a tunnel
into the reckless freedom of space and adventure,
shattering the stale sameness
that orbits everyday life.
It sang a new way into being and then,
returned me to my bed, freshened,
where the barking spirit of Coyote
stalked my sleep
and dreams dripped into an awakened life.

©Carole Fults photo and poem



A Perfect Storm

Once a six month storm tore at her shutters
a hot and turbulent wind
pummeled the untanned hide that sheltered the door of a dark cave
wherein lived one of the world’s most illiterate hearts.

As she allowed the wind to help her dance in the trees
Her toughened pelt became soft as velvet
and as pliable as priceless leather
limp, whipped and limber.

In the aftermath of the thrashing torrent
tears kept her hardness soft
and as she walked in the forest
she saw Bittersweet
strewn on the path under her feet
and she rested with her eyes wide open.

©Carole Fults photo and poem

The Beautiful Bindweed

The Beautiful Bindweed

Things That Live Forever

Planting, watering
feeding, weeding
trimming, mulching.

Still, wherever I gaze
the wilderness has escaped
and overrun my tame, well-mannered garden.

I’ve put in stone walkways –
weeds thrive in the cracks between the stones.
I dig them out, chop up their roots –
they resurrect themselves.

I throw down cardboard, cover it with compost
hoping to smother the poison ivy patch that mocks me yearly.
It dies down and then smugly grows back.

I pour poison on the noxious weeds…
they eat it up and grow on.

Bindweed strangles my basil
while clothed in the white beauty of floral adornment
as though it were a wild Morning Glory,
it’s roots ten feet under the ground
safe from the menace of my shovel.

This earth will outlive me,
as she has outlived so many others – species and ages
and she will continue to send forth weeds
through the cracks between the stones.

So this morning I only sit here
with my coffee
looking out with new admiration
at the wild things in my garden.

by caf

©Carole Fults