I am a beginner
but already enchanted
with the beautiful
colors and
textures
of yarn
the way it slips
through the needles,
the feel of it on my fingers
and the repetition
knit, knit, purl
purl, purl, knit, purl
over and over
like a meditation,
the clicking of needles
a mantra
calming
soothing
and creating
Yesterday I saw
that the deer
who comes through the yard
stopped and snacked on
my hosta
leaving nothing but the
central vein of
each leaf, which,
I have learned
is called the rachis
just these
rachises sticking up
where each delicious
blue-green leaf had been
Now the “blue angel”
is nothing
but a cluster of spikes,
unappetizing bits
to a deer
That’s the price
I suppose
for building my home
so close to hers
Photo by Mary Bach
Once when I walked
through town.
People were busy living.
Streets were filled with cars,
sidewalks dotted with people.
Everyone was on the way
to somewhere else
Except for me.
I was just walking
and watching
Now, an occasional car
slips past,
sidewalks are empty.
The people are gone
except for me.
I’m just walking
and watching
This is for Hedgewitch’s Friday 55 at Verse Escape.
Finish things.
That was Neil’s advice
to me and you.
Though so far I haven’t
taken it to heart.
Finish things.
Not the ice cream
or the box of chocolates,
but the projects,
the stories,
the work.
Finish things.
Despite the fear
of failure, or the boredom.
Despite the siren call
from the new,
finish things.
Summer
has grown heavy
and dropped from its stem.
The sun sleeps in
a little longer,
leaves the party a bit earlier.
Last night
felt almost like fall
while today is
crisp and sunny.
The leaves are still green
but a shade paler;
chlorophyll
begins to recede.
Time
to change.
Welcome back,
my dearest Autumn.
I am made
entirely of want. I
ache with it
but without it
there is nothing –
a pile of sand
a length of rope
empty shoes left
at the door
an equation without a
solution
This want chews
like a termite.
It both defines and
devours me
The good thing about NaPWriMo is it gets us writing. The problem with NaPoWriMo is we don’t have time to consider, to polish and fiddle. I feel like this needs more fiddling and considering. And a couple coats of polish. 😉
Early morning
stars,
so sharp
they cut through
the blue-black back drop
of icy air,
hang above
staccato yips and cries
of coyotes
so close,
as if I could
nearly
reach them
if I stretched – or
perhaps they could reach me, teach me
the desperate, wild
longing
in their cries
Morning blessings
as I count them:
wake
stretch
greet the sun
both smell and taste
of coffee
steaming in my favorite mug,
the one Darrell made,
that fits smooth
in the curve of my hand
sitting and fitting
with Otis
my sweet dog
in our favorite chair
and
writing
a few words
while the day is still new
This is for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads where we are asked to write something keeping the words of Mary Oliver in mind, “It mustn’t be fancy.”
Mary Oliver’s passing leaves me so very sad, yet mindful of little wonders all around.
The January halls
are empty;
they echo
with thin, pale memories
The January house
is bare and
spare,
empty
There are no tchotchkes
no collections
no trophies
no books
no pictures
to distract the eye,
or absorb the sound
of a single pair
of slippers
shuffling
through the January halls.
Hollow echoes
bounce
off the hard,
bare surfaces.
The January house
stands empty,
waiting
to be filled
This is for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads where we are challenged to write something springing from the word hollow.
Today is unseasonably warm
The shed wall is thick with Asian beetles
We’ve had once-in-a-century floods
the past three years.
Running through my brain,
insistent as an unfed cat,
is the thought
this isn’t right
Is it too early to panic
or too late?
This is in response to dVerse Poets, whose writing prompt is a quadrille (44 words) including the word ‘early’.
In Other Words 