November

Water and sky
rest on stage
in each others' arms,
after a frenzied tango.
Suddenly, there's a hint of sun
lightening the grays,
as above, so below.
Dragonflies dance
across still eyeballs.
Islands of seaweed float by,
setting to work
on unfinished business.
Flood waters recede
to unknown shores,
their mission accomplished.
Crows prompt the lost silence
with their frantic calls.
While I sit back and cherish
the curling fragrance
of my warm tea,
having played my part
in this one-act play,
cheering myself, my life,
for the inimitable courage
to live through
and celebrate
every season,
and this dark grey
November.

Becoming Me

and when I'm not full,
like that mellow fruit
on a pregnant tree, 
I let you in -
to fill me,
to become
you in me,
dying to what I really am -
a soul that's not up for sale,
the harvest of a love
that cannot be demanded
or plundered,
but only given,
in quiet patience,
as the tree holds her fruit
and her wholesome shade,
for those who care enough
to stop by and relish her bounty,
and sit under her radiant boughs
that speak incessantly
to the sun, the earth
and the dark heavens,
singing songs of love
flowing from the fullness
of a heart that hears
the stirrings of the universe,
and what it takes
to let you be you,
and to 'become me'.

Recycled Love

this moment
I find myself in,
holds the harvest
of yellow green summers
threshed out of their husks,
and a white field
of virgin snow
waiting
to be consummated
with gentle steps,
making their way
with and into
recycled love.

In Waiting...

the whole world
is in a hurry
wanting,
waiting,
to get somewhere,
to get something,
and fast.

but waiting
must happen
unhurried,
like losing yourself
in the mist
which will roll out
just like it rolled in,
in its own time.

like the pine cones
are set free
with the fall leaves,
upon the cool breeze
of an ominous winter,
waiting
is a ripening of desire
beyond your need
to bite into the fruit;

yes, you have worked hard,
survived many winters,
stood up strong
through many a fall,
the winds of change
have constantly eroded
your sense of self;

but waiting is not
about wallowing
in the frustration
of no harvests,
it is about finding
and loving
the hidden harvest
in the most treacherous
winter or drought;
garnering a patience
that is grounded
in the stillness of uncertainty,
and the stark reality
of discontent.

in waiting, there is
a slow and beautiful
coming together
of all seasons -
born from
a deep friendship
with the silence
and impeccable stillness
of an inner winter
and drought.

A Tree Without Leaves

winter is here -
as the cold wind blows,
I let go of my leaves
one by one, or in droves;
I've bared myself
for the world to see,
my sterile beauty,
what it takes to be me;
branches that twist
and turn, in a tangle,
life has been good,
because of the mangle;
a tree without leaves -
I stand alive and sure,
for I trust the seasons,
that sustain my source.