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
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
Bending like the body of a Willow
her limbs sweep the ground
and loosely dangle
Till straight up like a Sunflower
she stretches to the sky
caresses the birds and sometimes the clouds
Then, body parallel to ground
she opens and opens
until twisted roots untangle and align with the earth
Fastening her eyes on the horizon
she sees the sky blush as it receives
the first kisses of light
The life of dark time recedes
as lightness returns
revealing secrets hidden, now glowing
in the freshness of dawn.
She feels the sun awaken
as all things stand and bow
as she stands and bows in awe
at the return of grace
and to honor the light that lives within in her own heart.
This is called Sun Salutation.