Curt
I thought I heard your voice
but the whispers must have missed my ears
for now, only thick foggy silence sits on my shoulder
as I walk by a stream
through trees and Forget Me Nots.
Where are you? I miss you.
A bamboo flute calls through gray rain
heard only by turtles and herons
and me, as I wander through the mists
looking for a face lost long ago.
You must know, I have not forgotten.
© by carole fults
What good is a day?
What kind of day is it?
When loons on the lake wake you
calling your name in the early morn
after the Screech Owl kept you awake
all the long night before?
What good is a day?
What kind of day is it?
When the forest breeze
avoids disturbing the mist
gathered at the shore
and when you look closely
at the tree’s breath you see Beings
looking back at you
from milky air?
You want to follow them
but you also want breakfast
and – whispering – the visions tell you
that they have food
that will feed you
forever.
by caf
Photo and Poem © Carole Fults
Inside-out Art and Writing 