Finding the Heart

P1000243

Finding the Heart

She stood on stones in the creek crying
Someone asked why are there tears in all this beauty?

She answered
because the creek flows
the raven croaks
the wind sings to my heart.

This flesh that grew around my spirit
wants to dance in the rain
cry in the sun
roll in grass
quiver with aspens.

Why is this?

Butterfly answers
my spirit measures travel in and out of itself
in generations
and doesn’t count the miles
or wonder why.
It only knows it must travel.

Rain tells her
Stop managing your tears,
they are the way you find your heart.

©photo and poem by caf

Advertisements

In Spring

april sunrise

In Spring

When the morning makes itself pink
and sometimes orange
and the clouds wear dark blue
and the rain stops for a moment,
the clean chill in the air
finds her bones
and calls them to love even the coyotes
who ate the deer
even the deer who ate her Magnolia
even the dead mouse in her cellar,
for Spring mornings renew the world
renew her body.
She says
I think I could run and live forever
if it were always Spring.

© photo and poem by caf

Last Night’s Dream

P1000155

Last Night’s Dream

Moon shines on her dreams
lighting up the open closet
dust bunnies, memories stored
in bags of old clothing.

Waking, she hauls everything out
giving space for the burnished air
to wash the vacant corners
with a breath of freshening air –
Illuminated Emptiness!

© poem and photo by carole fults

turkeysBy Way of Explanation

The turkey in the field
wears shades of brown feathers
in simplicity as beautiful
as a peacock’s blue iridescence,

Oh, but you say Can’t you borrow just a bit of bling
for the day?
Sure, I reply, but then my poetry might not sparkle.

 

©poem and photo by carole fults

The Pumpkins

the-great-pumpkin

The Great Pumpkins

I think of you now
the farmer and the gardener
working in a field
heavily laden with bright orange melons,
loading them on wagons one by one
backs bending
many hands
careful not to break the stems.

I heard the gardener say to no one in particular
Peter, Peter Pumpkin eater
had a wife and couldn’t keep her

She cleaned off a small pumpkin and continued
put her in a pumpkin shell
and there he kept her very well

Hundreds of people came to see
what you had grown
arranged small, medium, large
the farmer stood among the magical gourds
chatting and smiling
while the gardener helped children pick just the right one,
I watched – so proud to be there –
knowing everything in the world was good.

© photo and poem by caf

The Visit

tub

                              The Visit

I imagine you to have perfect vision
that sees dirt in the grout,
on the floor,
cobwebs in corners,
spider web in the lampshade,
dust balls under sofas,
the disorderly garage,
cluttered studio.

I clean all day
yet intractable unacceptability
bends to no cleanser
no duster
no mop.

Finally I stop and sit
looking at my home.

I see no matter what I’ve cleaned, polished,
dusted or waxed
I’m here in the midst
of still more flaws,
my eyes eager to see you
voice ready to greet you
heart anxious to love you
arms impatient to hug you.

When you arrive in your road grimed car
I see lunch on your shirt,
nubby sweater,
lipstick smeared,
smiles stretched large around aging teeth,
saggy arms spread wide as you can get them,
and we laugh and say
how happy we are to be together

and how perfect it all is.

© photo and poem by caf

Dell’s Dandelion Wine

p1150107

 

Old Dell’s Dandelion Wine

The neighbor lady came to Dell’s door
on summer’s hottest day.
Old Dell greeted her –
Come on inside and cool off.

He led her to the cellar
showed her the barrel of Dandelion Wine
gave her a glass.

It was the coldest, sweetest tasting thing
she’d ever had on her tongue
and as they sat in the parlor and talked –
Old Dell, his wife, and this neighbor lady –

that cold stuff in the cellar
kept calling them
to retrieve more tasty nectar
until, unable to stand without staggering,
the neighbor lady said she had to get home,
her husband would be expecting dinner.

Old Dell offered to drive her the half mile
but she declined
saying she needed the air.

Sixty years later
when she no longer requires Dandelion Wine
to stagger
she recalls that far gone day
when, wobbling home across the across the pasture
she laughed
and stopped to pick more Dandelions.

© poem and photo by caf