I’m musing about musing, bemused by my muse, how she drifts on slivers of silvered streams, and beams from between leaves, perceives before thought reaches me, the beauty of golden glow, the gilding of roofs and trees,
and hears the calls of all the birds in sky and river beach, each a part of something larger–
in the flutter of a wing, the creation of a storm or from a tiny wish, greater reveries born, as time circles round, what was future becomes past, the russet leaves fall, a pewter blanket shrouds the earth,
but buried deep among the roots, sleeping seeds dream of brighter and more beautiful things, of blue and green
of fuzzy chicks and spotted fawn, of dawn chorus, mockingbird, and robin song—
and now in blanket weather, cat on lap, with pen to paper, the muse whispers write of the luminous branches covered in jewels, and the ripples in the river, the blue reflected from above, and the way time pauses and stills when surrounded by love– and I say, yes, it does, and yes, I will.
Our older child and their wife are here for Thanksgiving. This is the first time we’ve seen them since before the pandemic. ❤️. I’m getting ready for Thanksgiving.
Will you walk with me through clouded pink– the light diffused, brushing wings to make them glow—this sight, the morning rites of nature bound by the seasons, the revolutions round the sun, the wax and waning of the moon.
Where there’s a will, is there a way to hold these moments close and tight to heart and brain? Mindfulness or determination to see and feel and listen— do you hear the sound of secret things?
I wonder—do even vultures dream? They mate for life, finding the perfect husband or wife. Do they hope for the future—croon to their young? This I leave you, this is yours—the sky, the trees– the scent of death you smell on the breeze. Circle and fly.
Where there’s a will, is there a way to make the sweetness stay— away the aches and nightmare shadows! Come tomorrow. Will you? Won’t you? Seek joy with friends and family, share food and wine, linger in a moment– the season of the in-between
the twilight dawning, the morning of a new day, a mockingbird is singing, the leaves are falling. And there’s the moon, she’s calling, bewitching you, it’s true. But she’s asks, will you, is there a way? Will you both love and do what’s right? Will you walk with me? Look! That light.
We had brunch with friends over the weekend and signed their wills as witnesses. We enjoyed wine and pizza again at Blue Cork Winery in Williamstown, NJ, where our daughter, who has left teaching, at least for the time being, is now the Wine Development Manager.
If you like epic historical novels, The Women of Chateau Lafayette by Stephanie Dray tells the story of three women in three different time periods. Two are real women, the third is a fictional character—but all with the will to fight for what was right. I knew nothing of Adrienne Lafayette or the Chateau, so I found that very interesting—and also to learn that the Chateau continued to be a place of rights and freedom even during WWII, when it served as hiding place to protect Jewish children.
The moon rose through shadows, to sing a farewell song over forests and rocks turning softly pink in the dawn. And I watched— what else could I do? Ask if I am moon-mad to hear the whispers in the wind. Red-tipped trees sigh in the breath of ancient cycles, as time passes like the soft brush of heron’s wing. The geese in flight call, savor this, and the river murmurs through light and darkness– listen.
The Oracle obviously comes with me on my early morning walks. The last few days have been beautiful.
How would I tell you— the beauty of the morning sky, the bird-swept clouds, the hummed goodbye of moon still high
there, my eyes reflect the shine. To be or not, is not my question–here I am, not angsty youth, but rather longer in the tooth—
how would I explain, how the colors fill me with joy and light— grey or bright, the taste, the sight tawny gold, rose, and peach, the foamy white of churning waves? The winter river’s cool mint blue? The delight
of it–me and you.
My thoughts—my mind’s eye– how do I explain? There is no why— only what is the beauty of the sky, the light, the birds in flight
winging, singing star-breathed dreams, the colored streams web-woven in my head, released someday to fly in iridescent blues and greens—peacock-eyed— around the sun, then seeded in the ground–
how would I tell you any of this– thoughts, if not profound, yet unbound—the bliss.
This is the kind of stuff that goes through my head, so I guess it can be considered a soliloquy for Victoria’s prompt at dVerse.
“For nature gives to every time and season some beauties of its own; and from morning to night, as from the cradle to the grave, it is but a succession of changes so gentle and easy that we can scarcely mark their progress.” –Charles Dickens, Nicholas Nickleby
I remember that spring, the winter of despair, the flow of river into spring again
and again, the earth blooms, and birds come and go, soaring into clouds
that move across the sky– the constancy of sun and moon, the ephemerality of life,
insistent green sprigs emerging from driftwood, bleached and beached.
Each day the same and different, each sunrise a threshold to the unknown.
In dreams, my mother asks for chocolate– she says there’s more for them that wants.
This is how it is— this is who we who are, full of ifs and when
there is both laughter and the aches of time and memory–
we are here. Now I watch the bees,
and I remember too late, to tell them my secrets and wishes–
but perhaps they already know, telling their own dreams in buzz waltz,
remembering a day of endless sweet nectar, and brilliant colors that we cannot see,
yet can imagine, reflected in a sunrise yet to come.
This week has been a strange and strangely beautiful week of clouds, rain, and sunshine. I suppose that’s how August is. We’re supposed to get a return of the high heat and humidity. Yesterday, some family members got together at my sister’s house for the first time since the pandemic. It wasn’t everyone, and even though it was right before my mom’s birthday, it wasn’t really a memorial, though we did have a Sunday brunch fish tray, with fruit, and my Mandelbrot and brownies for dessert. For those who don’t know, we used to have lox and other smoked fish with cream cheese and bagels–plus a whole lot more–fairly often when I was growing up. Every so often, my grandfather, my father’s father, would bring the delicatessen food, which also included herring, rye bread, and coffee cake, to my mom’s (even though my parents were divorced). My mom would supply the juice, coffee, boiled red potatoes, and sometimes I’d bake something. Then, it became a special family brunch occasion because it has become very expensive, plus more difficult to get together. Mindful of the Delta strain–even though we’re all vaccinated–we stayed masked indoors, except for when eating—and we tried to stay far apart then. Fortunately, the weather cleared up enough for us to go outside for dessert. My parents were there in spirit and ash.
When we got home, we took a brief walk, and pulling into the driveway were surprised by this.
I don’t ask the moon for what she cannot give, enough her silver gleam on fields and streams, the night-shadowed things that vanish in dawn’s rose-petal glow. I know the universe’s music and light go beyond the who and when, circling through time’s beginning and its end– but if I stop to sit– even when the wind urges me to go— I’ll watch the clouds wing across the sky– egret white and heron grey– and here, I’ll dream of you.
My poetic collaboration with the Magnetic Poetry Oracle.
only the ripples remain. Each different, multi-planed,
dappled shadows, growing bright everything changes in the light,
once from stars, then into the sea– all connected –ducks, ripples, sky, me.
For dVerse Open Link Night, where Lisa is hosting. She shared a wonderful duck video on the prompt page, which made me think of the ducks I see at the park where I walk. The next OLN will be on June 24, and it will be LIVE at 3:00 P.M. Eastern Daylight Time. As with all dVerse prompts, anyone can join in. Then dVerse will take a two-week vacation.
Sleek pelts silvered in moon-spray, brown eyes see only each other, in this monochrome world the slivered crescent’s too high, and the twinkling birds too far away, though their lullabies soothe the midnight sea. There are only whispers, the susurration of the wind, the dreams of fish that arc above the surface, nocturnal mutterings—no danger tonight,
they touch nose to nose, then swiftly, fin-footed, in graceful pas de deux, they dance beneath the waves.
For Day 9 of Paul Brookes Ekphrastic Challenge. You can see all the art and read all the poems here.