Great Island Trail

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Great Island Trail

On Great Island Trail a dolphin
rested in the shallows
her body blackened by death
flukes bobbing in the froth
head lying on the shore.

Foam rinsed her vacant eye sockets
washing her memories out to sea
through waves and sandy ripples.

Sand and sea claimed her
held her joys and sorrows
Plankton drifted, awash in her dreams.
The sea, her Mother, will not forget her.

On the shore, fossils, memories of prehistory,
now belong to stones.
And when we finally lay down
we also will belong to something larger.

The soil of our planet lives in a universe
of expanding time.

So, we, like the dolphin, become limitless
and the stars and heavens
and Earth, our Mother, will not forget us.

©photo and poem by caf

She is not Gone, i said

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The Poet

Someone said the poet is dead
she was old and sick and died

But, I said, I went out
and saw her in the forest
among the trees.

No, they said,
she passed away
it’s in all the papers.

But that cannot be, I replied.
I saw her in the meadow
admiring the grasshoppers
and feeding them sugar water.

You’re wrong, they insisted.
She is no longer here.

She is not dead, I retorted
I heard her this morning
she wakened early and went to fly with the geese

Can you not hear her calling to the world
how we all belong
and live forever?

She is not gone while we remember to notice the fields
and the swans on the black river,
while we wake early to sing to the day.

She is not gone.

© poem and photo by caf

Her Hands

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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

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

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 Reluctant Cook

Burnt ToastThe Reluctant Cook

She cooks everything on high
no patience for process –
warming, browning, crisping.
must all happen at once
else time’s a-wastin’.

Toast cooked as intensely
as an egg is fried,
unfortunate vegetables whacked into bits
drowned in boiling olive oil.
She doesn’t  mind the charred toast
soggy veggies or burnt garlic.

She just goes for it
and cooks everything on high
all the while savoring
the scent of a percolating poem
and moments sewn into life
by unexpected muses.

© photo and poem by carole fults