I’ve been doing some hiking lately. This is something I like to do this time of year, especially when I find the lesser known trails at odd times of the day.
A field of ferns.
Looking down at Crow Valley from Turtleback Mountain.
This is the time of year when all the magic happens . . .
The cherry tree blooms,
The tulips open,
and everything is glorious.
Yes, this time of year.
I’ve been stealing out in the early morning to empty mountain trails.
Near Ship Peak on Turtleback Mountain.
I don’t remember a time when the daffodils have bloomed this early, yet they are are blooming now on Orcas.
In honor of my favorite season, here’s a poem I wrote a couple of years ago.
Daffodils
Destiny
is when the muddy yard turns from the snap of winter
Green fingers push through, reaching with fat thumbs
of promised golden blossom.
How does the green know?
Like actors waiting in the wing for the cue
of sunlight cast on mud
the volume of birdsong crescendo
the fingers open
cups to hold
the first sleepy bees of the year.
REMINDERS about WEEKLY POEMS: If you decide to use my poem somewhere, please let me know, credit the author, and link it back to my website. Thank you!
The Black Forest
Birds speak like children eager to be heard
Louder and louder until one dominates the conversation
Where water rushes, eager
to reach the end.
Here, where a woman is digging
her old body heaving shovels
of cow scent earth. She
pauses looking at her black land
her house, the upper level a barn
to keep her warm.
Nearby, a chapel sits, the
doll’s house model of the baroque
twin towers in the village.
A crucifix hangs on the door
White against the trees
Rangy pines, darken
into shadows.
And I think of the person
who planted these,
I imagine it was you
who crept between
the logging machines,
pushing seeds down with your thumb.
I try to remember when
these forests touched
in every walking place.
I close my eyes
And you are not here,
Yet I know,
I know the sky’s color
Would race down
and embrace us
like it has for us
in spaces before.
(from 1988)
This is a poem I wrote while in the Black Forest in Germany. The speaker is an immortal being returning to place of significance. It’s also a poem about missing someone I wanted with me on my travels.
REMINDERS about WEEKLY POEMS: If you decide to use my poem somewhere, please let me know, credit the author, and link it back to my website. Thank you!
I have many poems sitting around on my computer collecting dust. I decided to start sharing some of them. I am far from being a brilliant poet, but this seems like the right thing to do.
Starling Murmation
Patterns of pepper separate and swirl together
A vortex of wings,
Waves across the sky scatter and connect,
Over the cottonwood trees
Branches like shredded ribbons from the wind.
Silver leaves tarnished under clouded sky.
The birds merge and separate,
Twisted into a helix of wing and body.
Shifting of light and shadow,
The patterns illuminate something active
Controlled choreography
Not random or indifferent,
Patterns seeking connection.
Each bird responsible for a piece of twisted sky,
Perfect swarms of light.
(From November 2011)
This poem came about after seeing a bird murmation near Crescent Beach on Orcas Island.
REMINDERS about WEEKLY POEMS: If you decide to use my poem somewhere, please let me know, credit the author, and link it back to my website. Thank you!
