A Mother Tree

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

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Moon Flower

full moon

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

She is not Gone, i said

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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

In The Forest

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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

 

Her Hands

crochet

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

Death of a Hummingbird

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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