A Morning Blessing

P1090624A 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

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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

 

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

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

A Snowy Day

snow shadows

A Snowy Day

She walked through her garden in winter
among old flowers brown and gray
sapped of green youth
and soft, tender growth.

Aged stalks moved stiffly in the frigid breeze
although their shadows on rippled snow
swayed nimbly – the only evidence of grace
remaining near their hardened bodies.

Old seed pods and husks clacked and rattled
against each other
shedding their hearts
with each gust of wind

It’s simple, she thought, someday everything comes to this
the bare beauty of a snowy day
the sharing of seeds
and gentle shadows on the snow.

© photo and poem by caf