Wishes and Dreams

Now is the time for wishes and dreams,
for spinning your hopes and casting
your seeds. Let them fly. Toss them
to the sky, believing. Let them sail
along the secret trails that destiny
weaves through the seasons and times.
Let them go. Then sleep the winter sleep
my child, until wonder wakes you in a land
warmth and fragrant green, where birds
float to music and all your best wishes
come true.


Indian Corn

One of the things I know
about Mom Nature is she
surely loves her colors.
She could have quit at blue,
having painted the sky and sea,
and left it at that. Slight
differences in texture and shape
might have been enough
to grant everything its individuality.
But no. I think she must have heard
the one-of-a-kind song that each
thing sings and got inspired to give
them yet another way to play it.
Bright and dark, mellow and wild,
subtle and bold, and everything
in between. Just for the joy of it.
Just to give life a little more spice.

A Place of Peace


Imagine a place of peace.
Paint it with colors that feed your soul.
Fill it with air pleasantly warm and with breezes
refreshingly cool. Imagine the perfume
of it, and the sounds of all its living things,
seen and unseen. Become aware
of all the molecules, dancing with light
and guarding this place from all harm.
Let it breathe you in, and out, and in,
until its breath and yours are one,
flowing together, effortlessly, here,
in this place of exquisite peace.


As if the Earth wished to hold the sun
as its hours of visibility dwindle,
it fills our fields and roadsides
with living, glowing gold, a feast
of color for our eyes, and of pollen
for the bees. Its only mission
is to nourish, and so deep into
the sunset, its burnished gold continues
to glow and its song of Yes
to rise.

Remembering Sky

Creek at Brady's Run

It’s been days now since the last rain.
The creek bed is all but dry. The rocks
that form it are littered with bits of bark
and a few fallen leaves. The day’s heat
dries and warms them and, looking up,
they find themselves remembering sky,
remembering when they lived atop
the mountain, all those ages ago. Now
they live with fishes beneath the silk
of cool waters, except in mid-summer
when the rains are gone and the sun
comes to kiss their faces once more,
reminding them of the time they lived
atop the mountain.

You Can Be My Sunshine

Lemon Lily

You there, beaming your golden
smile, trumpeting your song
as if the world were your kingdom,
as if you intended to proclaim
joy from shore to shore,
You can be my sunshine
on this cloudy summer day.
I’ll take your song and sing it.
I’ll beam your message of joy.
Let the clouds grow and the rain
fall, and may they sing, too,
until everything is shining
with your golden, perfect song.

The Blossoms of the Catalpa Tree

Catalpa Blossoms

Hot breezes blow, a foretaste
of summer. The heat awakens
the catalpa seeds, and they burst
into hundreds of blossoms,
white and ruffled, clustered
among the heart-shaped leaves
of the tree. You could imagine
they were mounds of snow
or ice cream if you were longing
for relief from the fiery air. The sight
of them itself is enough to cool
you. Such is their grace, refreshing,
even in this afternoon’s air.

Morning Ballerina

In a spotlight provided by the morning sun,
alone on the stage, she dances.
In the surrounding pines, a lark sings,
and dew sparkles at her feet.
This is her late-spring ballet, a tribute
to the season, wholly feminine
and filled with grace, her pirouette
embodying the songs of springtime’s