Rose Yellow

There is a bush of rose yellow where bloom tightly binds
through first frost protected by bough of
precious crabapple and wall of brick and mortar.

The few last petals cling to stem,
thorns useless for no passerby would pluck
such ragged bud to prove one’s love.

I clear away all that presents itself boldly just for show,
to see your grip as though it’s spring awakening.

Here I am comforted by your gentleness,
emboldened by your sense of strength in your own being,
and conceive that which only you know resides within.





You are ordained by your creation
from our Holy Singularity,
cosmos infused with
each microscopic particle,
each microscopic particle
of You that is part of me
and you and you and you
and every…thing

Under sun’s brilliant rays,
heat warms, gives life,
we burn with passion

By moon’s radiant glow
we rest, we must rest without
fully knowing, releasing to all

With song of owl, wisdom
fills our empty space as
each sorrow is liberated

Along wolf’s path
patience learned,
faith in oneself
and strength in pack

On our bellies slide with
snake closest to Earth,
bendable, lithe to protuberance

Abreast of fox who plays in grasses
yet hears, knows one must be
aware of that which no longer serves

Crow glistens black
against crystalline blue,
we honor, hold one another deeply,
mourn our losses, never forget

Flowing with water
we make our way
silver threads encircle
Earth with life

Stand with preeminent tree,
together roots dig
into Earth entwined

And gaze above,
see our infinite selves,
stars, galaxies boundless,
yet bound to one another

We are ordained, simply by our Creation.




Author’s Note:

Full Moon blessings.















One last summer kiss from

transparent dragon fly wings,

 our season end farewell.




Author’s Note:

This morning’s walk found rusts and greens, ochres and dusty blues dressing the open space. Then with one sweet and swift past, one last little dragonfly passed close to my cheek – a last flight I feel as the chill in the air and the browns of the grasses tell us we will see one another in the spring.




It was an accident,
shunned from mulberry leaf,
diverted to shallow bowl of jasmine bud
and boiled water.
Her long slender finger, ringed in jewels,
scooped puffed cocoon catching a thin thread,
it was an accident.

She pulled and pulled and thread endured
long and strong until only a naked
form remained afloat among leaves
released of their essence, a body
no longer moth bound,
enchantment broken.
It was all by accident.

Did you know silk worms don’t fly
once transformed from cocoon to fragile moth.
Oh, they flutter their wings,
provoked to fly, yet flutter is all they endure.

What life – one disposed for cloth of silk,
a lustrous thread woven round a
fine line of leisure.

Or life devoted to suppressed wings
that scutter endlessly on mulberry leaves
only to dream of butterfly’s flight.

Little silver worm, how do you choose?




Author’s Note:

This evening our wonderful writing group met. We just don’t do this enough!

We all had the same words to use in our writing, but each of us had a different opening line. As is our custom, our prompts are only a suggestion. I didn’t use the opening line I drew: The first time I ever saw that man I wanted nothing more than to punch him square in the face.

Our words to incorporate were – provoke, shun, fragile, endure, suppress, shallow, enchant, divert (and I chose not to use cappuccino or ridicule).

Also influencing my writing are the little silk worms that we are growing in our classroom. They begin as eggs no larger than the head of a pin. Then hatch into teeny, tiny black worms that are hardly visible. They grow into slivery worms that eventually turn into larvae and cocoon. They emerge as beautiful with moths that don’t fly and begin the cycle again.

I feel guilty growing our little livings things that are not native to Colorado. Silk worms are not native. They feed on mulberry leaves, ravenously. We don’t have mulberry trees in Colorado. It’s much too cold. But the science company sends a green powder that I add water to and microwave it to boiling. It smells like alfalfa. The kids think it stinks. But those little worms eat and over several months we watch an amazing transformation.

In the end, we cannot, of course, release the moths as we do the butterflies, mealworm beetles, and milkweed bugs. They are not native. So there is someone in our school district who receives these fluttery little beings and does what they do with them, whatever that is, in their basement.

Hence the darkness of this poem…