fallen feather

Courtesy of the September 3 prompt at NaHaiWriMo. We are entering my favorite season, autumn. The temperature is finally bearable, the changing colors speak to me of life, even as the world settles in for a winter nap. Because, well — naps! As a child, I couldn’t abide them. As a middle-aged woman, I love them. Speaking of seasons, here’s a neat online quiz to refresh one’s memory as to the why and wherefore of what creates the seasonal change. Now, get out there and find some early fall leaves.

embers of mothering

Well, one can’t be everything nor yet do all things. I simply am not “feeling it” when it comes to writing short stories. What am I feeling? Balky. Stubborn. Feet firmly planted. Thirsting to do something with words and creativity not related to policy-prattling. So, here we go. Let’s see if this fits the proverbial bill this post-Mother’s Day. Prompt from May 9 Writer’s Digest poetry prompts.

 

Binding Poetry

autumn leaves and quote

Just a wee bit of something to think about as autumn winds down and 
winter prepares to take charge: 

Is this really the time to sleep? With autumn leaves crunching 'neath 
booted feet? Our mittened-hands tucked
silently behind our stiffened backs and firmly closed minds?
Listen to the wind whistling through skeletal limbs,
feel the rain drizzling down on shamefully bowed heads.  
Is this the time we dare to do?
To embrace the challenge of life's renewal?
Is this the time we cross the line,  reach our hand 
to our brothers and sisters in pain, to the the children in want, 
and the strangers in vain? Or is this the time we 
yet turn away, 
turn inward, 
turn silent
and 
wait for the spring?

A Brief Ode to Wool Socks

Thou tender encasement of woolen yarn,
Thou cocooning shelter of pooled warmth!
Sturdy cocoon, a harbor ‘gainst frost, your purled patterns
offer refuge for flesh, previously freed
to frolic in mosses and dance ‘round leafleted trees.
Toes dug lightly in the warm scented earth
that bred spring dandelions, nurtured the summer rose.

That same dirt -- now wearied with care – by Issue
fully ripened and birthed, and now full circle carried
to Harvest Home with thankful praise and blessings given,
while Mother Earth quilts herself in rust and grey.  
Her blanket shelters the slumbering Fruits, hiding them
from Winter’s chill that slides past trembling Rays,
ushering in stillness and somber reflection.

As frost lingers and our Fair Sun hides her face,
Grant me Thy armor, Thy cordial affection!
Shield my extremities from Winter’s sly suggestions
of seasonal despair; wrap my numbed feet
in your loving embrace, and safeguard their memories
of Spring, simple joys and youthful pleasures.
By your grace, free them from Winter’s misery.

The Wisdom of Trees

A friend asked me
the other day
what I thought —
if trees could talk —
what would they say?
Trees are poetry in motion;
they speak in light
in shadow
in whispers on the wind;
sinking down
into the ground
to find the strength within.
Seasons come and
on they go
and yet the tree remains;
changing shape and hue
turning leaf to bloom,
and round the season comes again.
Their limbs embrace
a world without
and keep a world within.
What could we learn
you and I
from trees that grace
the land and skies?
The fashion of stillness,
of deliberate breath?
The grounding of life’s magic
in mystery, even death?
The grace of covering shelter
of homes freely given
of food shared
and food taken?
The patience to wait
out the inevitable storm?
For even in the midst
of such destruction
seeds of new life
are generously sown.
What would the trees teach us
if only we listened?