In The Forest

dforest

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

 

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Her Hands

crochet

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

Death of a Hummingbird

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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

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

A Day Like This

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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

Baby Sunflowers

baby sunflowers

Sunflower Seeds Meet The Full Moon

They sprout from safe darkness
dirty heads wearing remnants
of the seeds that birthed them

for now they are but inconsequential stalks
living on my window sill

While the pompously bright but barren moon
ogles them (I imagine enviously)
– these springy suns to be.

© photo and poem by caf