Light bathing

Light bathing
Light bathing

Morning sun
white yellow
illuminates my forehead,
hands, and belly.
It catches in my eye lashes.
I can see its beads
in my every blink.

Morning light sparkles
on the fibers of my blanket.
It glints off my pen
into my downcast eyes.

The day is inviting me
to lounge and be.
Sun will do the work today,
the work of growing and greening,
of moving fairly
sprinkling bright drops
over the fields and
through the leafy trees
onto the delicate bells
of lily of the valley.

All I need to do
is allow
to breathe in
the drops falling
across my lips
and let them soak
life energy
into my soul.

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A curated life

A curated life

A curated life
A museum quality life
where we hold onto
things that give us
beauty, pleasure and function
and cast off the
things and people and beliefs
that do not nourish us

Cast off
pinchy shoes,
negative nellies,
broken tools,
dirty carpet,
harsh light bulbs,
unsafe practices,
belittling thoughts,
unresearched judgements,
and processed foods

Keep nature
the green and growing,
strong and blowing,
singing birds
and shade trees

Keep art our muse
poems and pictures,
happy music,
sensuous sculptures,
symbolic wreaths
and calming decor

Keep clothes
of color and soft fabric
with flowing lines
and classic style,
stretch and comfort,
warmth and breathability

Keep function
The tea mug,
the toaster,
broom and rake,
things for cleaning
and things for transport

Especially keep loved ones
who love us back
with wide open arms,
warm kisses,
interested ears,
and thoughtful hearts

A curated life
is a chosen life
culled for happiness,
love, and uncluttered peace

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There’s no place like Mom

There is no place like Mom.jpg
There’s no place like Mom

There’s no place like Mom
A safe place
without judgement

There’s no place like Mom
A warm place
full of unconditional welcome

A nurturing place
with good food
and big hugs

A fun place
with laughter,
card games and pink hair

A forever place
with love that
lives in your soul

Truly,
there is
no place like Mom!

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March

March.jpg
March

In like a lamb
only the crusts of snow
like heels of day old bread
linger in the shadows.

The dormant grass is showing
like unmentionables under a short dress.

The fields are spitting rocks
and the gravel road puckers
as the frost comes out of its winter den.

The spring birds have been fooled,
red wingers bobbing on tattered cattails
and robins teasing worms from the brown lawn.

Then,
something changes.
Is it Pi day on 3/14
or the Ides of March on 3/15?
Today,
March changed her mind.

Rain then sleet then snow and blow
and blow.
The pussy willow catkins shiver
and the yearling fawns are scratching for corn kernels
heads down against the wet snow
whipping horizontally across the open spaces.
Weather man says snow all night.

Out like lion.

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A year with deer

A year with deer
A year with deer

A year with deer outside my window.
Creatures of the dawn and dusk
they materialize in the low light
leaving their hiding spots
to graze in the slight protection of numbers.
They nervously twitch flag tails
talking to each other,
bobbing their heads in watchful munching,
ears turning on turrets
listening for anything out of place.

They clue me into something amiss.
Tails in the air,
high leaps punctuated by nervous stares toward the creek.
They crowd closer together and move to the side of the house.
Hunger keeps them from darting into the woods.
I look where they are looking.
Ah, coyotes. Two of them. Slinking. Looking about.
Marking a bush. Gnawing on something.
The herd relaxes slightly as the coyotes leave the scene.
The business of dinner resumes.

As food becomes scarce in winter,
the deer pecking order shows up.
Does in their prime birthing years eat first.
Fawns come out in full daylight
to beat the cautious does to the waning food supply.

Fawns, now without the attention of their mothers,
like waking children with chicken tails,
fur ruffled and uncombed
eat the soy beans nearest the house
where the does will not venture.
They come in twin pairs
small and fluffy with sweet little noses
and a lost look in their eyes.

But, summer does are great mothers
stepping up their watchful biding to protect their progeny,
showing their darlings where and when to fill their bellies
and where and when to hunker down and chew their cud.
Fawns play and leap and nuzzle each other
unworried about dangers.

Falls deer are reeved by nature to procreate.
Does play hard-to-get
pestered by horny bucks
abandoning sustenance to chase tails
and posture to competitors.
Eventually does choose a suiter
looking back with a come hither,
get-this-over-with look.

And, the cycle continues.
Spring fawns
Fat summer of plenty
Rowdy fall
and scarcity of winter.
Through it all the strong and wily survive.

These beauties of the woods
thrive and grace us in with a show
as they go about the business
of living on the edge of forest and field
outside my window.

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Frog Buddha and Lawrence Welk

Frog Buddha
Frog Buddha and Lawrence Welk

Feeling
stuck in the mud today
just staring outside
unmoving
and unmoved
not even the smiling Frog Buddha
with a lap full of snow
or the ‘50s fashions of the Lawrence Welk show
can shake me out of this funk.

I tried snowshoeing,
homemade chocolate milk,
tall taper candles,
and watching the deer
yet nothing sparks me.

Frog Buddha
give me trust
that all paths go in the right direction,
that I am never on my own
or alone
That I am loved
and that happiness is always the best choice.

Maybe I should learn to tap dance,
listen to big band
and pursue the creative life

Lawrence Welk’s snappy music
is beginning to help,
the glass of red wine doesn’t hurt either
and the sun going down,
farm lights glowing in the gloaming
are warming me.

My spirit will not be denied.
A softer time is coming.
A time of simplicity
of touch
of love
and happiness bubbling
like the best champagne.
Frog Buddha is right to smile.

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Hope for snow

Hope for snow
Hope for snow

The high full moon
small and tight
in the puckered snowless sky.
Winter is slow coming this year
cracking only for a bit of Christmas snow.

Hope for a December lion,
a fresh, fierce tempest
to burst us out of the doldrums
and into a new year of adventure.

Adventure to explore the attic,
the cramped dark storage places
to confront fears,
to throw out old stories
to look for unused treasure and talents.

Adventure to explore beyond the yard,
beyond familiar ground
to find inspiration and courage,
courage to follow dreams
courage to flow with bliss.

So, hope for snow
to carry us into the New Year,
to carry us far
and remake the dull spots
into something grander,
something worthy of this one bright life.

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