A Day Like This
Some days are made for gazing
long into the distance
where dusty words
are excused from stale thoughts
as your body wears a rut into a comfortable chair
by a big window overlooking a field or forest.
Some days are for ruminating, wondering
about nothing much at all
but who’s coming up the road
and why the lilacs are budding so soon
while dishes soak in the sink
and floors beg for a sweeping.
Some days never rise
but lie napping by a snoring dog
who barks between snorts
while the leash lies idle
and coat sleeves remain empty.
If such a day should come to you
tend to it as you would a sleeping child
let it relax, keep it safe
treasure it and check on it often
for such days are when your soul grows
your life’s poetry.
© photo and poem by caf
Today I saw a cow licking her newborn calf
as a kestrel killed and ate a pigeon in the tree.
Walkway cracks sport new grass
though drenched with killing spray.
The big moon rose followed by the sun
though I doubted either would shine again.
There was laughter and wings on water
though hungry guns combed the other side of the lake.
There was tenderness in the trees as I sat on stones in the creek
though the rocks felt cold and secretive.
An aging butterfly landed on my arm
harbinger of yet another metamorphosis
Her wings were hard used and frayed
but she stretched them out broadly,
if not grandly.
We sat dreaming of pollen and sweetness
until she wobbled into flight
daring me to follow
But now I am a fish in icy waters, frozen
and will only regain my wings
when the chill departs
and warmth returns to the land.
©photo and poem by caf
One day Fear relaxed for a moment
and dreamed of
When Fear awoke
she was changed forever
into a multi colored river
uniting all the earth
and her new name was Love.
©photo and poem by Carole Fults
She was a lover of Yardley’s lavender soap
and purple double petunia’s
She washed floors in a blue house dress
laced with small flowers
and crocheted rugs from bailing twine
and plastic bread wrappers
I heard she had beautiful long brown hair
that inspired my grandfather to write her love letters
on birch bark
although by the time I knew her
her hair was short and gray
and she said auburn is the best hair color.
She played with children
beckoning them through the woods
to a magic circle of peace where she would walk,
her tall sturdy frame leading the way around the path,
and if you followed her, you knew you were safe.
Then one day in my pockets I found judgments about
her judging me.
Now, I ask, how many times have fear and judgment broken
the spell of love?
If there is a lesson here
it’s that I wish I had struggled
through the currents of white faced fear
to get to the other side
Just so I could have loved in time.