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
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
Great Island Trail
On Great Island Trail a dolphin
rested in the shallows
her body blackened by death
flukes bobbing in the froth
head lying on the shore.
Foam rinsed her vacant eye sockets
washing her memories out to sea
through waves and sandy ripples.
Sand and sea claimed her
held her joys and sorrows
Plankton drifted, awash in her dreams.
The sea, her Mother, will not forget her.
On the shore, fossils, memories of prehistory,
now belong to stones.
And when we finally lay down
we also will belong to something larger.
The soil of our planet lives in a universe
of expanding time.
So, we, like the dolphin, become limitless
and the stars and heavens
and Earth, our Mother, will not forget us.
©photo and poem by caf
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 Spring Birthday
When the violets
and Jack in the Pulpit awaken,
ferns unfold their bowed heads
and stand tall in frond wrappings,
trees pause in conversation to attend
to the yellow visions of Dandelions
and to Trout Lilies and May Apples
as they pray for the dead snake on the path.
You may say this is fantasy
caused by too much listening
to the whispers of a greening forest.
But she has come to rouse her sleepy soul –
to rise with spring and warming days
having been summoned by wind, river, stars and stones
to this holy place
to receive a new voice
to learn fresh songs
to birth a new dream for her life
and new hope for this aching world.
©photo and poem by caf
Continue reading “A Spring Birthday”
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
A Morning Blessing
In morning sunlight
in early winter
when hills are browning,
with mindful breath she breathes the wind
with sacred song she woos the waters
and begs the trees and the Spirit within
bless the beasts, she whispers
the possums, porcupines, woodchucks,
the birds and bugs and worms,
bears and bobcats
gorillas and fish,
and also, humans.
Bless the plants
who in winter store holy life
in their roots
and bring it forth as
new growth in the spring.
May all beings live their lives
free from turmoil
may the Earth be always blessed
Amen.
©photo and poem by caf
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
Her Hands
Her hands are red, chapped, cold
big fingers, short nails.
She’s been hanging clothes on the line
in coldest winter again.
The sheets come in dried and frozen
stiff, fresh and breezy.
When they warm
everyone wants them on their bed.
Her hands are red, peeling, hot
big fingers, short nails.
She’s been rinsing the dishes
in boiling water again.
She’s stacked the foggy plates
into the dish drainer
where they dry instantly,
no germ stands a chance of survival.
Later, she takes up her crocheting
chapped, raw hands, no longer red
big fingers, short nails.
How delicately she maneuvers the threads.
Her wedding band wore through long ago
from too much floor scrubbing her daughter said.
A delicate diamond would look silly on
those wide fingers that never saw a manicure.
Hands that plant purple petunias, pull weeds
big fingers, short nails dirty and torn.
She scrubs them clean until they’re red.
They smooth my hair and say I love you.
© photo and poem caf
The Hummingbird’s Death
The hummingbird on the stone walk
outside my door
lay so still
I picked him up tentatively
thinking he was dreaming
but his eyes remained closed
and my eyes found tears.
What happened to you?
I whispered to his softness…
No answer
I buried him in my garden
near some sage
and placed a stone
to mark the spot.
By way of eulogy
I wished him joyous flight
and offered prayers of awe
that in my hand
I had held Magic wrapped in feathers.
©photo and poem by caf
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