Forgiving absence

Our swallow babies have grown quite large, 

Yet still their parents feed them — 

Clearly their wings are still a bit too stubby 

To consider attempting flight.

 I used to think the fact that their parents 

 Flew away whenever we opened the door 

Was because they didn’t trust us, 

But now I understand it’s because 

Feeding these hungry teens is a full-time job: 

There’s no time — or room! — for them 

To rest and socialize. 

We do our best to grant the same understanding 

 To absent friends and children, 

And trust it’s their busy lives, not fear or distaste, 

That keeps them from making 

 That physical connection.

Sylvan artist

As an artist, there’s so much

 I could learn from the trees: 

How many shades of gray there are,

 And how to use them to convey life and death; 

How to blend colors, 

And let them spill across a page

 In a song of survival; 

How to take opposites like red and green 

And pick shades of each that stand side by side 

And work together, totally complementary; 

How to use texture to express 

 The depths of our shared pain, 

As well as the capacity 

 And determination to overcome…

Art depicting art

The expression on this face 

So beautifully reminds us 

That Samuel Clemens’ humor flowed 

From a deep abiding sadness 

With the injustices and thoughtlessness 

Of his world, in hopes of drawing attention 

To its cruelty. I am reminded, seeing this, 

Of a favorite Eckhart Tolle quote: 

“The purpose of all great art 

Is to serve as a portal to the sacred.”

Thriving without our help

Though my watering efforts have been focused 

On the newly seeded dirt that was dug 

When we added our foundation, 

The rest of the garden seems to be thriving 

Despite — or is it because of? — 

This dry summer — reminding us 

We’re not the saviors of the whole world; 

We just need to do our part...

Survivors

This one made me think 

 Of that Rudyard Kipling poem — 

“If you can keep your head 

When all about you are losing theirs 

And blaming you” — 

And isn’t that part of the value 

 Of a classical education, 

 That you can’t but realize you’re not alone;

 That whatever you might be suffering, 

Others have gone before you and survived 

To tell the tale and offer hope?

That golden glow

The golden glow of morning 

Colors everything it touches: 

Bathed in spirit, awash in gold, 

 Our lavender turns pink; our grass to amber. 

 All, ignited, is united, however briefly, 

At the rising and the setting of the sun; 

Those times when the divine spark within 

Spills out, enflaming us all with joy.

A simpler life

I can’t not stop for scenes like this: 

The fog, the barn, the bales of hay 

All call to me: a siren song 

Of textures, colors, childhood memories —

 The tastes and scents of summer, 

All stored up in a photograph; 

A gentle reminder of the pleasures 

Of a simpler life.