The Watcher at Wood Duck Pond

wood duck pond

The Watcher at Wood Duck Pond

One day hiking we came to Wood Duck Pond
and there we saw an older gentleman
sitting in a chair
eating his lunch and watching
just looking ….. and looking

He might have been a Buddha
He sat so still
But there were no ducks
on the pond
or in the air or on the shore.

He was gazing at the stumps and logs
and surface scum
unbothered by mosquitoes
or deer flies
or gnats.

Froth on the water
reeds growing by the edges
stumps rotting in the lagoon
and not a duck to be seen….
Didn’t bother him.

I asked him why he sat there.
He said he watched for ducks
and whatever else might come by
maybe a heron, “it doesn’t matter”.
He just sat and watched, looking.

Not wanting to disturb him further
we whispered good wishes for his watching
and walked quietly onto the wood’s path
where we saw butterflies and snake skins –
but still no ducks –
although I found myself also watching.

by caf
Photo and poem © carole fults

Mountain Lake With Crows

White Birch Lake

A lake on a mountain
open to the sky
………        (the lake has given calmness to the crater)
receiving what comes
rejecting nothing
………              (it is deep enough to hold all)
A feather falls in front
of the full moon
………    (a gift from the crows who call between the peaks)
Still waters receive its touch
and quiver
………       (a lover’s touch on quiet skin)
Clouds touch earth
as she lies next to the face of spirit.
………  (in the mist, the lover’s breath)

©photo and poem by caf

Standing Twist

Standing Twist

Intentions for a Yoga Practice

May what softens my body
Also soften my anger
May the difficulties of my practice
Melt the hardness of my heart
May stumbles and failures
Dissolve my arrogance
And the bondage of perfectionism be undone
May truth be allowed its say
And may I release whatever I have hoarded
May light heal all souls forever.

by caf

©photo and poem by caf

Fishing

heron

Fishing
One summer’s solstice
the blue heron
dropped from the sky
to stand in wakeful stillness
in the green scummed pond
by which I watched from the shore.

Her twiggy legs and intent stare
alert to burbles source below the surface
she moved only once sparingly
darted, speared her dinner
flash of silver
returned to watchful silence.

Finally, weary of my unrequested presence
she casually withdrew to the air
and in full self-possession of her strong winged strokes
she flew freely
to fish in waters
of greater solitude.

by caf

© photo and poem carole fults

The Passing

wind 2
The Passing

Some believe that when a soul passes
it’s leaving arouses the air
dragging the clouds to new places
and the snow to unknown meadows and forests.

We can’t catch the wind
nor can we follow it closely
or even discern it’s path.
But we can feel it’s movement on our cheeks
and in our hair
as it glides around us and rouses our skin.

We can’t see the breeze that shakes the house
or rattles the chimes
But I like to think it is the movement of Spirit
dancing in the world.
And we can know that it is this windy frolic of Spirit
that brings Life to the Earth
and Breath to our days.

~ CAF ~
© photo and poem by caf

Morning on Pyramid Lake

mist on the lake
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

The Closet

closet

The Magic Closet

She emptied her closet
the shirts and the pants
the blues and greens
the browns, blacks, reds and greens
She dusted the shelves
swept the floor
closed the door on emptiness

But then when later she passed by the door
she saw it open and bulging
with more things
stories in clothing
shoes filled with poetry
coats billowing
filled with memories

Life keeps her closet full
and may it be so while she lives
a bottomless source of fables, tales and metaphor
waiting to be heard.

by caf

Photo and Poem © Carole Fults