The Painting

growing restless

blown-out candles

leave behind smoke

rising stories fill the senses

pictures forming

paints are humming

mixed-up hues of

ochre, verde, sepia,

cadmium orange and cyan

hand is trembling

voice is scratchy

heart stops

catch your breathe

close your eyes -handle

of brush levitates

and down splashes your sweat

amongst the tears of increasing years

quiet, taut and invisible

signs of life approaching

nearer the canvas

and soon your caught

ropes and hooks

with a fisher’s net

of scrambled puzzles

non-configured, contorted syllables

poetic verse undressed

and therein lies the bare necessities of The Painting.

knowing (part three)

you inherited the chive patch
knowing
picked blossoms fail to seed
saving you time later from unwanted guests -so

fill a jar with rice vinegar
bathe the purple buds
in time, pink flows

covering life in marinade
saucy joy splashes high
above the growing grass
menial tasks put off another day.

thinker and willow

Photo: Hands in the Garden

Willow sway -no other tree,
hiding secrets -you and me.

Gently gliding, dancing free,
inviting patrons to listen…

feel the breeze.

I love other blogger’s posts that take me back in time. Personal time.

When my Anna was born, we planted a willow in the backyard to commemorate her future. It was a twig, no more than a 1/2″ circumference and about 3 feet tall. It grew quickly, soaking up the swampy spot in the yard. In less than six years, it stood over 15 feet tall and 3 feet around. It was a magical playground. Summer picnics and stories, shared with stuffed toys and imaginary friends, were abundant.

Being a soft-wood tree makes it easy prey to storms. One fateful summer, her willow was blown over. Everything inside me was invested in that tree… and in her. Lost to the wind… My dreams for my daughter were broken.

It was prophetic, that summer storm, but I was too busy to hear.

Tragedy has struck more times than I dare count. Grief is my dearest friend. Hope is but a splash of dew that fails to quench desire. Joy is bittersweet.

Even this week has been countless disasters; small and large. Seems silly. To think storms break us, but they do. Even the small storms are difficult to overcome.

Who knows the future? The only way we stop mistakes is to consider the past. Resilience, like the willow, comes from making our roots deep.

So, as the hummingbird who sits through the storm, head down, in prayer, I face the world which threatens me daily, knowing love overcomes all.

may my faith always be
at the end of the day

like a hummingbird…returning
to its favorite flower.

–Sanober Khan, Turquoise Silence

Ascend (a photo challenge)

Ascend

I would love to know what squirrels think, when they see a person walk by, who suddenly stops when they hear their chatter above; stop, dig, reach in, snap, stare and stare and stare. Move along… For any length of time, no doubt, that squirrel is surveying an escape route. But you must question why the squirrel said anything to begin with, if he did not want company?

Not to worry, I did not ascend that tree.