Sleeping Giants

 A New Mexican Thanksgiving Suite

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In slanted light of falling sun
golden prairie settles.

Stalwart mesa shades its face
as piñon round and sagebrush knurled
lift their prayer in dusk’s sweet stillness.

And giants sleep into the night.
The Ancient Ones, who rest and dream
through dawn and day until
the time they raise their head
to welcome us back home again.

Fog

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He sniffs the damp fence post, a reveal of who came before.
Deciding all is well, he leaves his mark
and we continue on.
Fog sneaks in behind us, a foreshadowing of storm.
We will not venture out into early morning falling flakes,
only because I fear ice that lays waiting to surprise,
A turn of seasons offers its own perspective,
leaving its mark for me to decipher.

 

Dog

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There is something holy
about the three of us
here in bed together,
a clouded sky at
snow’s first settling.

When you came to us
we were only two,
you made three,
a sacred number.

As you press against me
your gentle breathing
silky coat
a comfort to my day,
I am guarded from
that which diminishes
that which matters less.

A ternary,
we sleep.
Woman, man, and dog.

Prodigal, the aftermath

tree

Thunder came
with lightening flash
to remind me there is more,
always more to remember

And rain consoled the
pain of day

And Moon appeared
as rain was almost complete

With sky still shrouded, how could
she shine with such courage,
be so bold in the dissembled
sky when blood ran so freely
and tears flowed

It is Light we must allow
to bloom, even as grey cloud billow
and thunder storm preside

Light we carry
born to this dream

It is Light,
the prodigal Love of All
that heals

Pluvia

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There’s something
about the first rain of fall
when it comes, finally, to fill
in the cracked earth of
summer’s heat

A mollifying, reminding one
that change will come,
regardless, and without
our doing, or undoing

As we circle and spin,
we transform
by our living, re-shape by
what passes over and
around and through us

There is no control, none
really needed, just patience
and some stillness
to sanction the interval
until drops upon the roof
announce their arrival

Bell Jar Tomatoes

Each tomato nestled insideBell Jar.jpg
one of seven bell jars
soldiered neatly atop our garden wall.

“It’s an experiment,” she whispered,
clad in raincoat and boots,
umbrella ready at hand.

“What kind of experiment?” I returned,
no rain gear for me, an adult without worry of storm.

“It’s a mystery,” she breathed,
eyes intent on vermillion,
globes luminous in the gloaming.

“And how will we know…” I slapped at my arm,
gnawed by a hungry mosquito.

“The Frog Children will come!”
Her incredulous wide eyes squared at me,
not allowing a finish to my question.

“Of course. I forgot.” I bowed to her fervor.

“They will come through the steam.”

“You mean fog.”

“No! The steam.”
And she steered her umbrella toward the pond.

We stood guard until dark.
No Frog Children came.

“Oh, well!” with a shrug and she flit back through
our wooden kitchen door, swallowed up
by the inky hall to her bedroom.

Tomorrow will percolate new mysteries for us
in our garden of bell jars, tomatoes, and steam.

 

Author’s Note:

This poem is from hour 14 of the 24 Hour Poetry Marathon. The prompt was as follows:

Write a poem that contains at least five of the following ten words. Feel free to include all ten if you wish: Frogs, Evening, Tomatoes, Jars, Raincoat, Steam, Peculating (Which I read as “percolating” by accident after fourteen hours of writing,) , Children, Elbow (Which I changed to arm in the final draft. ), Mystery.