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
Works of Clay
She bends the clay around emptiness
creating a vacancy for utility,
vesting it in vitality.
The coolness of moist mud
sticks to her hands as she coaxes shape
from a formless heap of thickened slip,
while the wheel turns the pot,
and heaven spins the earth
and morning and evening
caress the shape of a day.
©photo and poem by Carole Fults
Long ago the heart of God
like a cattail beside a pond or river
cracked and split
spreading its life over all that was.
The womb of God
like a milkweed in the meadow
bursting followed by birthing
as the silken spirits fell and grew
in the fertile fields of creation
sending sprouts of joy
throughout the universe.
The sun discovered daffodils and sumac
as a Mourning Dove hunkered down
in the snow under a pine.
The icy snow that could destroy her is – for now –
Her beautiful soul finds shelter within the breast
of the beast that threatens.
Isn’t that the path of a fearless heart?
4 Ponds and a Bog
One day the hiker came to kneel
by the bog
bury her face in the muck
and inhale the mud from which she had been created
to feel the spirit of the stuff
from which she had been distilled.
She smelled the gathering fragrance
of congregating beings
a scent elemental and familiar
like the smell of family and tribe.
Are there dragons in the forest?
Or monsters in the ponds? She wonders.
Only bugs kissing the waters for a drink.
She feels the earth recognize her as its own child
as she dissolves into her true home
where bees hum the song of the universe
and dragonflies are angels.
And she asks that when she lies down
for the last time –
when she comes to the end of herself
like the dead frog lying in the road –
may it be on the peace of home
by 4 ponds and a bog.
©photo and poem by caf
To All Those Who Love Terror
Did you think we would give up because you were scary,
because you have guns, bombs and can kill us?
There is something worse than losing a life –
losing a soul to fear,
a heart to suspicion,
a love to dreams of revenge.
You will not massacre my peace.
You will not exterminate my hope.
You will not eradicate my joy.
I have this whole earth as my love,
my defense and my strength,
and you have only guns
while I have a pen and camera.
©photo and poem by carole fults
The Watcher at Wood Duck Pond
One day hiking we came to Wood Duck Pond
and there we saw an older gentleman
sitting in a chair
eating his lunch and watching
just looking ….. and looking
He might have been a Buddha
He sat so still
But there were no ducks
on the pond
or in the air or on the shore.
He was gazing at the stumps and logs
and surface scum
unbothered by mosquitoes
or deer flies
Froth on the water
reeds growing by the edges
stumps rotting in the lagoon
and not a duck to be seen….
Didn’t bother him.
I asked him why he sat there.
He said he watched for ducks
and whatever else might come by
maybe a heron, “it doesn’t matter”.
He just sat and watched, looking.
Not wanting to disturb him further
we whispered good wishes for his watching
and walked quietly onto the wood’s path
where we saw butterflies and snake skins –
but still no ducks –
although I found myself also watching.
Photo and poem © carole fults
A lake on a mountain
open to the sky
……… (the lake has given calmness to the crater)
receiving what comes
……… (it is deep enough to hold all)
A feather falls in front
of the full moon
……… (a gift from the crows who call between the peaks)
Still waters receive its touch
……… (a lover’s touch on quiet skin)
Clouds touch earth
as she lies next to the face of spirit.
……… (in the mist, the lover’s breath)
©photo and poem by caf