Lazy moon in her bed of night sky
makes no light of her own
but only reflects the sun
and trusts the earth to keep her orbit steady.
She lights our darkest world
and her burnished body covers the pines in lacy glow and shadow.
Yes, this spoiled child creates miracles of beauty while doing nothing
but sharing the light she has been given.
©photo and poem by caf
The tree extends to her
across the road and river
a branch, its wing with flowers white and delicate.
She looks into the centers of calm harmlessness
as they attend to her gaze with
offerings of healing fragrance.
Their spirit offers her inclusion in their peace
and they whisper
when nothing within is defended
or denied, you, too,
will awaken to your own beauty.
©photo and poem by caf
Waning moon
Stars, small suns to other worlds
the smell of morning.
No matter the evil,
the ugly,
or the political,
the Mystery is still here.
©photo and poem by caf
You are the soul of so many tunes
and my soul as well
old friend – what do you think of your life with me?
stuck in a closet
needing new strings and a tuning.
You are a grand lady
who has served me well
and I will not give you up
although our times being with each other have grown scarce and thin.
Old Max brought us together
muttering over his work bench
tuning, humming
looking for tiny screws with a magnifying glass
eyeglasses heavy on his nose
covering innocent eyes that saw
an awkward young girl in need of hope
and someone’s notice.
He spoke to her in musical words
like strings and sound boards, tuners, and horn bells
and the best language of all, born of unaffected innocence of observation…
the language of the heart.
©photo and poem by caf
A deep tureen
concealed by forest foliage
and therefore mysterious.
crafted by beavers,
quiet but for birds and insects
singing her secret name
while raindrops drum her surface.
Dead wood and weeds clog her banks
where dragonflies are born
and grow in her slimy gumbo.
To those who live there
she is the ocean,
the bottomless crater that holds the world.
But as this wondrous old bowl
reflects the clouds and stars
she dreams she is the sky.
©Photo and poem by caf
I’ve been noticing: Many of the acorns are tiny this year the waters are full and rushing waterfalls are full and loudly vocal the sun is sometimes red in the morning the moon has not been so visible frogs continue to croak dragonflies still hunt mosquitos I remain in love with cows mountains continue to inspire me we are rich in slugs the spiders have been busy webbing mornings have been foggy mushrooms are abundant the trees are lushly vibrant I still miss my Mom I am so grateful for this life. If you keep noticing you will reach gratitude that overflows as a water fall streams from an overfull lake or a river spills its banks from too much sustenance soaking the ground of your life the banks of your heart and the rocks of eternity. © film and poem by caf
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,
defining function,
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
Beautiful Soul
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
burst open
bursting followed by birthing
as the silken spirits fell and grew
in the fertile fields of creation
recreating love
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 protector.
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.
But no.
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.
by caf
©photo and poem by caf
