What will become of us?

I made the mistake of starting my morning 

By reading a bit of national news 

And learned of the Arizona congressman 

Who said a Washington woman rep 

Should be executed for teaching folks 

Nonviolent resistance. 

So much for freedom of speech. 

I turn from my computer 

And stare sadly out my window 

At the newborn figs, 

Dancing in their branches in the rain.

Fifty Shades

The mountain and her dance partners, the clouds, Compose their own chaste version 

Of Fify Shades of Gray…

Warning: curves ahead

Wherever you’re headed, 

And whether the journey is planned, 

A simple exploration, 

Or a response to a crisis, 

There will inevitably be curves, 

Moments when you can’t quite see what’s next, 

And have no clear escape if it looks bad. 

But still, I know you’ll power through;

 Keep on moving forward 

At whatever pace you choose, 

Following your destiny and trusting 

That each moment is exactly 

Where you’re meant to be, for now, 

And what’s coming will have 

Something new to offer.

A larger view

When you’re sick, the world shrinks 

To the size of your room, 

 Or — if you’re lucky — 

To the view from your window.

 Sadly, being sick, I begin to understand 

That much of my country 

Must also be ill: unable to see 

Beyond their own walls 

 To the beauty and depth 

Of the larger world. 

But what is the cure? 

 And how can we restore 

That broader, more welcoming view?

Gathered reminders

As the season draws to a close 

 A few hardy flowers still cling to their vines 

In defiance of the winter to come, 

We, like the squirrels who store away 

Nuts for the cold days ahead, 

Gather the flowers in our cameras 

To remind us spring will come again.

Despite past experience,

It’s sometimes hard to believe…

Earth’s own pandemic

Driving down the road, heading west, 

And seeing fog beyond the trees — 

Or is it smoke?— and wondering 

If this is yet another fire, 

Or simply morning mist 

 Above the nearby sea. 

Wildfire season is earth’s own pandemic: 

Forcing all the vulnerable to mask 

And shelter indoors; coating the air 

With fear.

No figs left for us

There he goes again, that pesky little squirrel, 

Too fast for me to photograph 

As he separates another fig 

 From its branch among the leaves 

And scampers to a sturdier branch 

Beyond my field of vision 

To munch contentedly until the buck, 

Sharpening his antlers, shakes 

The whole tree, knocking squirrel and fig 

To the ground…