Clouds

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Clouds

The weatherman forecast rain
but there is only this pink and yellow morning
and clouds glowing white on the bottoms.

A jaguar’s face becomes a wolf
with glowing eyes in the billows
as a rainy-day prediction turns golden.

Maybe later it will rain,
but right now she says
I think butterflies must have been born
on a day like this.

©photo and poem by caf

After Night

sunrise

After Night

After a long black night
pink and white clouds
yellow sun
dark branches waving
against a glowing sky.

Icy waters slide over stones
spring winds rustle the chimes
as she watches the waking forest and fields.

She says the day love and joy were born
has come again this morning
to be remembered
to renew Spirit in the world.

Miracles live within each other.

After dark storms this day returns
as much a miracle
as the breath
and heart that live
within the blue bird on Bennett Hill.

©photo and poem by caf

Talking to the Big Bear

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Talking to the Big Bear

Outside at night
admiring the seven stars of the Dipper as it floats over her house
she asks
how do you stay together in your constellation
and not drift apart, leave each other, find new stars to align with?

The Dipper answers:

Bear sings to crow
crow talks to others.

Seeds ride the butterfly’s wings
Butterflies flap their wings and worlds collide
Stars move around the galaxy
but never leave home.
There is a sun in everyone’s life –
a mooring to oppose the random
flight of wild freedom.

Evolving through plankton, amoeba, dinosaurs,
bears, lobsters, butterflies, mountains and trees
you own their DNA and you know them.
Through them you are anchored to earth
and through earth to the universe.

There is no family if not these tribes
of nomads,
these clans of non-relations,
an expanding, elaborate
lineage of dissimilars
that hold the bloodline for all of us.

And you are part of a dynasty and royal house,
knotted together by interlacing
webs and snarls of lacework,
fastened to the destiny of the universe,
like the stars of the bear that sail over your house.

© photo and poem caf

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

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