In the Garden
from egg and caterpillar to cocoon of silk
to orange and black smear of summer
and quivering wings on Bee Balm – do you mark your age?
or do you think only of your assignment
to dance in the flowers
while we, the more evolved, fight our own metamorphosis
from cocoon of flesh to angel
arguing and resisting all the way home
to the garden.
©photo and poem by caf
Things That Live Forever
Still, wherever I gaze
the wilderness has escaped
and overrun my tame, well-mannered garden.
I’ve put in stone walkways –
weeds thrive in the cracks between the stones.
I dig them out, chop up their roots –
they resurrect themselves.
I throw down cardboard, cover it with compost
hoping to smother the poison ivy patch that mocks me yearly.
It dies down and then smugly grows back.
I pour poison on the noxious weeds…
they eat it up and grow on.
Bindweed strangles my basil
while clothed in the white beauty of floral adornment
as though it were a wild Morning Glory,
it’s roots ten feet under the ground
safe from the menace of my shovel.
This earth will outlive me,
as she has outlived so many others – species and ages
and she will continue to send forth weeds
through the cracks between the stones.
So this morning I only sit here
with my coffee
looking out with new admiration
at the wild things in my garden.
Proof of Wind
Bits of evergreen litter the winter floor
white dunes of frozen drifted waves of snow greet her
like sand in an icy desert
Her bones dance clumsily down the path
as frigid air sneaks under her jacket
She was hoping to see a bobcat
but no other animals are up and about
except her and her companion
Even the birds are quiet as if the air has frozen their songs
pond waves do not slap, nor lap the shore
yet, she says, there is a presence here.
Not deer, nor bobcat
not bird nor bat nor bear
not even squirrel, fox, or beaver
Her breath is snatched out by air that flies around
from on high
a whooshing moaning sighing crying squeaking sound
Proof of wind
Evidence of spirit.
Yellow Moon in Lavender Sky
Must I Fly?
An aging owl regards the yellow moon
in a lavender sky
Fog laden snow filled fields
Stars shining in the frozen slickness
Trees crying ice drops dripping
from evergreen needles
Clouds and luminous rays denying
the clarity of darkness
Flurrious winds push the old owl along
as she struggles to find a quiet patch
where, sinking her talons into frozen bark,
she can rest on a still limb.
Sighing, she raises her eyes to midnight and asks
“How much longer must I fly?”
And midnight answers
“Until you’re done.
Until you’re home.”
Morning on Bennett Hill
It was a magical morning to be awake on Bennett Hill
The horses and cows were blowing fog from their nostrils
as geese and crows competed
for the shrouded airy currents.
The rising sun looked like a ghostly lantern
as it tried to penetrate the mysterious steam
that enfolded everything in a sheer gray woven fabric.
I heard a chorus of joy rising from the creek
and as I ran to discover the source of the song
I saw angels rising from the mist that blanketed the waters.
A gentle wind was stirring and the angels were chanting:
“Holy is the wind, Hallowed is the wind that stirs the waters
and brings us breath!”
As the breeze dispersed the mist and the sun burnt off the fog
I watched the chorus fade, still chanting.
And staring at the water I saw smiles in the waves
and heard laughter in the currents.
I took up the angel’s chant
“Holy is the wind. Hallowed is the wind that stirs the waters
and brings us breath!”
And I heard the wind reply:
“Holy is this earth. Hallowed is this Earth that calls our names
and gives us life.”
Blue Sky Moon
The moon said:
“My love I know you fully
you are not the only seeker
I return all your gazes
and take pleasure in the seeing.
So the knower is the known
and the loved becomes the lover.”
From “Moontalk” by CAF
Taken at 5 Rivers Environmental Education Center in Delmar, NY.