Beauty at the edge

The algae, the rocks, 

The pipe, the post, 

The water, the shadow, the grass, 

The colors — the lime, the rust, and the blues — 

All gather in the morning sun 

To share their subtle gifts with passers by: 

Such beauty thrives at the edges of things…

Multiple personalities

I took so many pictures yesterday 

Of the colors in the trees, 

Why is this the one I chose to post? 

It’s not even that clear a shot, and yet 

The artist in me seems to love the balance — 

The chimney, the reds, the swooping branch… 

But the poet wonders what to say 

And the philosopher is pondering: 

Is there some message here?

Mushrooms

I speak today in praise of mushrooms, 

Who arrange themselves beneath the trees 

So gracefully, as if they know 

An artist might come along and notice 

Their clever composition: 

The cluster of the large and powerful, 

Who dress themselves 

 In jewel-like blackberry leaves 

 But are also broken; 

The purity and isolation of the outliers; 

The one, purest of all,

Who, cut off from the source, 

Lies fallen among dead needles, Earth, and bark…

Autumnal colors

This time of year, I find myself 

Exulting in the colors of the trees, 

The subtle passages from green to yellow, 

Gold to red, and sometimes almost purple… 

So delicious, whether framed 

By a gray sky or a blue; 

Such a gift to warm us 

As the days cool down and summer sheds 

 Her golden blanket to hide among the stars 

Til spring returns…

Each path an adventure

Each path contains within an invitation, 

A challenge to the curious; 

 Even those who know what’s at the end 

Are drawn to continue, 

Whether they see it as a means to that end 

Or a chance to discover 

What mysteries might have evolved 

Since last they passed — 

Because, as you know, 

 Things are always changing: 

The rosehips may have darkened. 

There might be some new frogs 

Chirping their welcome, 

Or a garter snake might slither across 

The ground in front of you, 

Or finally, as the trees part 

To reveal the vista that lies ahead, 

The clouds might have drifted away, 

Leaving the snow that tops the mountain 

In the distance glowing pink in the sunset:

 Each step an opportunity for adventure.

Driftwood fantasy

Ever since the first time I moved to an island,

 I have loved driftwood — 

 It can be so deliciously complex, 

Plus I have a tendency to anthropomorphise… 

I’m not around it much any more, 

But this one caught my eye yesterday 

While I waited for a ferry. 

What do you see? I see an alien mother, 

 Cradling her youngest with one hand 

While checking on or listening to an older child 

Who seems to have fallen. 

Fanciful, I know, and yet 

My own maternal sympathies awaken, and stretch 

To ache for and include 

All the mothers of the world…

When the mirror’s warped

Just a wee reminder: 

Your reflection will be inaccurate 

 When the mirror you are looking in 

Is warped: 

Be sure that what you’re told about yourself 

Comes from a wise, honest, and reliable source.