Where observation and imagination meet nature in poetry.
Tim
seeks me
in the garden
small
white
butterfly
always
hovering
nearby
Ghost
that I glimpse
from the side of my eye
Darting through blossoms
resting on leaves
taking advantage of sunshine and breeze
Pointing out a shapely cloud
waiting on my mailbox
inquisitive antenna cocked
Reminding me
as mortality
rages on
death
is not
the final stop.
Tim Mann, dear friend and fellow traveler,
Charlotte, my dear,
I’d prefer it if you
left your messages outside.
The fields empty at dusk.
The kitchen fills with the sound of hungry forks
and the quiet of resting work boots.
Until the crops have given their full yield
you may rest in the high weeds with the moon flower.
When it is time to till again you will carry the full weight of a man and his dreams.
When the reeds begin to sing their rustling song of early Fall
the geese know it is time to prepare for their pilgrimage south.
The images of the day
roll across the river’s surface.
A moving picture that will only show once.
Shoulder high your flowers grow
row after row
awaiting their service of solace or celebration.
Seek shelter from the gathering storm.
Let faith be a blanket that keeps you warm.
I will pick a bouquet
of rosemary, sage, thyme and lemon grass
to honor and adorn tonight’s chicken.
When the present arrives
suddenly and surely like a train
the past is left behind
and the future is forever before us.
Nestled against the mountain,
tucked beneath a tree,
only the residents know the way in.
You seem to extend into eternity.
Next to you I know my smallness is the right size.
I am a necessary fragment of your wholeness.
This is where the dragonflies play
on lazy summer days.
Paradise is at your feet.
All your miles brought you to this empty field.
Doors are flung wide, frozen in time,
your driver and passenger eternally on the run.
The fields form a patchwork quilt,
a growing green cover that reaches from the river bank to the mountains.
Tied together with labor and nurture for the purpose of sustenance.
Hot days make you tall.
Cool nights keep you sweet.
When your tassels droop, we will come for you.
Delicate adornment,
lichen lace modestly covers
the crotch of branch and trunk.
When the afternoon melts into dusk and evening is on the rise
new dreams are born in shadows and cloud forms
as old dreams disperse with the day.
Knighted by Queen Anne
Goldenrod is a nobleman
loyal guardian of Her Majesty’s meadow.
In August, with your metal seat as hot as a branding iron,
you rumble across the fields, chewing rocks and cutting grass.
True champion of summer.
Docile and dainty,
your genial disposition
makes you the queen of the dairy.
What’s your story Morning Glory?
Trumpeting delight in each new day.
It beckons you to venture
noiselessly
into the heart of mystery.
The bank is soft as an easy chair.
The water a cool embrace.
The sky is as blue as a robin’s egg.
Perfect summer day.
Hostess to the bee,
you make his fuzzy jacket pale in comparison
to your explosion of color.
A tree of great courage
refused to be broken
and dared to reach for the sky.
Glimmering in the sun.
Bewildering birds.
Hungering for fenders.
The morning mist is a curtain
waiting to be pulled open by the sun
revealing the action of the day.
The land must be listened to
respected and revered.
Old friend show me the way to Eden.
What kind of cows have wheels and honk?
The young one wonders.
Dumb ones. The older ones know.
