anise and sage

canyon hiking
pinching green
between fingers,
crushing

    the fragrance
      of anise
    and sage

covered with birds

a small miracle
happened when
leaving for work
this morning:

my copper bird-feeder,
as yet untouched
was covered with birds:

tiny red finches and
at least one sweet dove
took turns pecking
for black sunflower seeds

premonition in yellow

wet marshland
late February
a meadowlark follows us
with it's flute-like song

journaling

inky hands
my brain
is full of
words and
sounds of
birds

reparations

our house
in need of
so much repair

today a new fence
tomorrow, the world.

kindred

speaking with the young curator
about my writing, about film--
finally he smiles widely

in repose

she's sitting
still as a
statue:
gas fire flames
lick the glass
in blues and
greens the
color of her
eyes my
old belov-ed
strip-ed
cat

three bunnies

warming themselves
in the early morning sun
three bunnies huddle
giving their best
sideways glances

rumi owl

courtesy of Writing Our Way Home's facebook photo pages

“What you seek is seeking you.”
― Rumi

silver thread

surprised to find
the red and green christmas napkin in my pocket
the day I'm wearing
the pink scarf with the
silver thread woven in
and out, throughout,
like tinsel
when we drank milky sake
on new year's eve
two years ago when
I wasn't wearing this
scarf, but
another one,
and you said you
were happy
that night;
so was I.

gratitude

the cold air
as I walk to work:
relief from the pressures
and entanglements
of the weekend

in unison

dark clouds move in slowly
over the canyon
as two crows soar
in wide-winged circles

temporal

in the sun
behind the dry shrub
my old striped cat
warms her nose

daily dishes

her favorite coffee cup--
color: turquoise blue
is not as cheering
today, despite fine weather.

hat

on the stocky man's bald head:
an electric blue
hard hat
with funny stickers

the wall

between the wall
and stairs
red berries explode,
demanding gratitude

cluttered

in a corner of the desk

late January

shadows fall behind

a skyline of lotion bottles

and pencils

skyward

gazing across the temperate canyon,
enjoying sun; light breezes, I realize
I've forgotten the sky.

looking up:
cerulean blue,
delicate clouds,
endless possibilities.

old dog

The mean woman across the street
walks her old dog every day,
around the block, I'm guessing.

The dog can only move slowly, and the woman has great patience as it waddles behind her on a leash. She restrains from walking at her own pace, waiting for it to catch up.

When they near their house, the old dog's tail begins feebly wagging. He or she is ready for a rest.

The mean neighbor woman invariably yells at everyone whom she dislikes and is always cranky. She hasn't made many friends.

saturday morning

coffee and oranges,
books and birds
squawking like ducks
and last night's dream,
the sun streams,
strong as a chariot
into my morning room