Certainty

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There is a certain kind of beauty in unwashed windows,
windows that reach so high I can only get to them

once in a very long time, oh, I still see out
when sun’s angle allows which gives me reason

not to tend to the common task, keeping it
for another day, a day when there is less to do,

a day when more important things have been tended.
But when clarity is diminished as sun shines its eye directly

confusing view, when looking out becomes staying in,
disorients need for accuracy, rests in shapes and shadows

that whisper through, no compulsion for definition,
just a gentle telling of story, a compassionate perspective,

not by smoke or fog, nor snowfall, but years of life
leaving only breath as it passes on conceding spaciousness

between that which I cannot change knowing all remains
secret to my interference until sun presses on

and glare is gone and I see once more that which was obscured.
There is a beauty in not seeing leaving certainty behind.

Circles

Mother Tree

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Circle One
Mother Tree whose roots wind below
next to stream and under playground,
tall with branches lifting sky,
rough bark protection against all that is harmful.
And her eye, where branch once connected,
now sit stones placed by me,
an eye that sees and from which drips
water of her being, tears of joy,
of pain, of love as needed.

In all seasons standing tall and strong
bending in wind, there for me always,
soft padded ground as in great redwood forests,
a playground for innocence.

I am welcomed, at home, at peace, I am enough.

Circle Two
I want to learn to speak the language of Mother Tree,
the one who stands strong and bold,
yet allows season storms to pass.
She bears the burden but doesn’t break.
She abides to show me movement round her,
but she, she listens. She shades.
She grows deep roots to hold to Earth.
She feeds the world with herself without noise,
without moving, without having, without collecting,
just being. She speaks the language of ancestors past
and those who will come, without saying a word,
just being who she is and how she has been created.

Her language has no words, I listen and learn from her.
I learn from her just being – her bark, her leaves,
her roots, her eye, her branches,
her compost made from what falls away to nourish new growth.
She is stalwart, yet flexible. She comes from the past and
will live in the future, not as this one tree,
but growing new from her wisdom.

Circle 3
Mother Tree in me knows that I am whole.
I come from the past and I will be eternal.
Her branches grow through my trunk and into my arms,
in all of me…me, and I touch the sky.
Her roots go down my legs and through my feet
and I am grounded not just to topsoil,
but deep below and far and wide my roots will grow.

I, too, am strong, no need to prove.
I can be rough to protect, yet soft inside to cradle.
I can see with compassion and wait,
listen and be there for the innocents
who come to me, including myself.
I can welcome and give rest.
I can be the maypole dance of celebration.
This is Mother Tree inside of me.

This I notice…
I am connected to all and all to me.
I am perfect and have no need to prove myself.
What I am and what I do, is all that I need.

 

Author’s Note:
I am taking a wonderful course this Solstice hosted by Amber Kuileimailani Bonnici called Woman Un-Leashed. It is a free on-line retreat featuring some of the most wonderful goddesses to bless this earth. The above poem came from work with Mary Reynolds Thompson who took us through three circles of self.

What a joy to be able to move through this season in a deeply creative way that speaks to my soul.

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Bye Bye Love

There was a full moon that night. There was always a full moon now.

It began simply enough.

Who knew that moving the kitchen table, just a slight angle so she could look out the window, not one direction but three, would make the difference.

There was a new table cloth, too. After thirteen years, she was ready to look out from a different angle, a new light.

Yes, new light. The moon was full that night ushering in the Solstice, the turn of the wheel to a new year.

It was dark when she returned home to her new angle to the world. She took solace that after this night, light would grow again. Her feet hurt and her lunch bag was not to be found. She remembered setting it down at the bus stop. Her half-sandwich which she saved for dinner, half an apple, too, gone.

She had little energy to muster. All she could do was crack open the kitchen window and sit at the table to look out. First left. Then right. Finally, settling on center as a small glow above Hank’s house caught her eye. She didn’t move. For the next hour the wheel turned slowly as the moon in her fullness rose above the house, trees silhouetting a figure. Crow kept her company this evening.

The moon was full that night.

“Hey! Rosewood! Where ya been?” A voice bellowed out of the dark. With ruffled feathers, crow rose above the tree top and disappeared as the tall, lanky figure emerged.

Rose let out a sigh. The evening would now be given over to Hank. And his beer.

“Hi, Hank.”

“Mind if I rest for a few?”

These were words of ceremony.  First, Hank announcing his arrival. Her reply. Then his request, which no longer waited for approval.

Rose opened the door and Hank made himself comfortable.

Rosewood.

Each time Hank called her that, her feathers ruffled a bit. It’s not that she didn’t like Hank’s nickname for her. She just didn’t like his bold intimacy. He inserted Rosewood into their conversation the first time they met. Usually, nicknames were shortened versions of a cumbersome title. Rosewood was complex and stronger than just Rose. She never knew a Rosewood. She was named after her grandmother, an nostalgic name, a soft and feminine name. But it made her feel old and vulnerable. Rosewood suited her.

Hank took a sip from his beer and set it down on the table. He was gruff, but funny. He stayed too long most of the time. But he would do anything for her, if she just would ask. But she never asked.

Tonight with the full moon, she wanted to bathe in its glow. Alone.

“How are you, Hank?”

From behind him, Hank pulled out a bottle for her. He placed it just so in front of her as if he was presenting her with an award. It wasn’t a beer, but a clear liquid in a lovely bottle. Blue lettering in cursive. No graphics. Elegant. Hank enjoyed a bit of gin, too.

“It’s the one I told you about. Leopold’s Summer Gin. Batch #2. The one with that flower…immortal?”

“Oh, yes, immortelle, helichrysum.”

“Yeah that’s the one. I told you I’d find you a bottle. There aren’t anymore left in town. It was a small batch. I got the last one.”

She and Hank were an odd couple, if couple was the right term. He was as much of a connoisseur of beer and an occasional gin as she was with herbs in her garden. Who would know that the two would cross and make sense? But they did.

Hank turned on Pandora. He knew what Rose liked but always started with his channel.

“Bye bye happiness. Hello, loneliness. I think I’m gonna cry…” trailed out of the speakers, through the kitchen window following the trail of the moon as it made its way across the sky and back down again. They sipped gin straight with a bit of ice and talked for hours about nothing, but mostly about everything that made them two of a kind…

And yet, so separate that Hank gathered a blanket and gently covered Rosewood curled up on the couch as he locked the door behind him.

There was a full moon that night. There was always a full moon’s glow for Hank and Rosewood.

 
Author’s Note:

Our writing group met last night. We had new members join us and our prompt master was more than masterful.

My luck of the draw’s image and opening line was: There was a full moon that night; there was always a full moon now.

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I do not have an attribution for either images or the prompt. If anyone knows, please let me know!

I am thankful for…

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My feet
to step on Mother Earth
connecting me to her
and all that grows beneath
and rises above to meet the breath of day.

My lungs to breathe in Life.
My eyes to watch Moon
cycle in remembrance of
my fragility and fiercness.

My skin
to touch the Sun’s warmth in my heart
and know his fire burn to ash
when I must begin anew.

My nose to smell lilac and rose, pine and rain, and doggie breath.
My ears to hear crow and whispered wind, roaring waves,
and
the deep stillness of You within.

Lips and arms to hug and kiss you…
my love, my Bean, my dear sweet friends,
the children of this Earth,
each and every one of you.

You.

…..

Happy day of gratitude and joy.

May compassion be the way for this day
with gentleness and love for all – even the hard ones.

Munay. Aho. Amen.

Lexanne

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.