Seeds planted Germinated Fresh green cotyledon Breaking through soil Bursting with possibility Void of disease, destruction Facing the sunlight Using their chlorophyll to pull energy from the sun Creating more life
Human babies Newborns Void of wounds, mishaps, disease Alive with anticipation Open and accepting Turning toward The light of love From the world
We who witness the potential Grow Full of excitement While harboring fear Knowing Perfect does not last Suffering happens Possibilities do not Guarantee achievements But still There is hope Joy and Anticipation In witnessing new life
Welcomed and rejoiced over Even with the knowledge That pain, disappointment Will happen Arriving hand in hand With growth New life Birth and rebirth Accepting the risk Loving the whole That is our challenge That is our joy Holding onto the faith Of Julian of Norwich That all shall be well and All shall be well and All manner of things Shall be well.
The concert hall is bulging With silver, grey, white, and bald heads Mixed with a few scattered brunettes and blondes The air is electric with anticipation Conversations fill the theater Like a bowl of Rice Krispies Strangers connecting Sharing stories Of how Tom’s music Has impacted their lives People recall the details Of a show Some fifty years past With smiles adorning their faces It could be thought All are trying merely to Recapture their youth Maybe some of the energy Erupting within Is memories being unearthed Triggering joy But as Tom Rush Humbly Without introduction (none required!) Ambles out onto the stage The electricity crackling Through the air Is here. Now. In this moment. Tom stands fully present Not a ghost of yesterday His eyes are sparkling with joy and fun His face Wearing the wrinkles of a life Of laughter, love and authenticity As he radiates life Ageless spirit of life He strums his guitar Sings out the lyrics Tells the stories And makes us laugh He gives no apology For his 80+ years (None required!) As he performs his creations Old and new He introduces songs From his new album So aptly titled Gardens Old Flowers New So true We, The silver heads Leaning on canes Wearing braces Slow sometimes to move Turning up our hearing aides We are old gardens Being fertilized tonight With joy and love of life With merriment and truth We leave the theater Returning to our own worlds Ready, maybe To embrace Our own well-nourished gardens of life And grow new flowers To share To cherish To treasure Ageless beauty. Ageless spirits.
Fear crosses our paths Uninvited, unwelcome It can block our light Obscure our dreams Insidiously it moves across Our being Races our heart Constricts our throats At its height It seems to obliterate our dreams But stay present. Even when all hope seems lost When the shadow of that fear Covers over the light of your dreams Stay present. Look into that fear And notice There is still light Our dreams Send out light, energy, life They are encased in an atmosphere of hope Which cannot be extinguished By the shadow of fear Our dreams are diamonds Oft in the rough Waiting to be Polished, and lived out Releasing their light to the world
The moon did not extinguish the light Do not let the shadow of fear Convince you That your dreams are gone They are merely hidden Look fear in the face See the corona of your dreams Streaming with energy and light The shadow will move on Hold onto the dreams!
The path of the moon As it travels across The life-sustaining gaseous orb is riveting as the black arch cuts away the edge of the orange globe then, like molasses on a cold winter day it travels on until totally obscuring the Sun Mid-day brilliance turns to dusk Hats are donned Jackets pulled close As the mercury plunges
There is mystery here Causing silence amongst Those gathering in this nest In the woods Random strangers Together gazing upward At a wide expanse of sky It feels as if This is our own private show The Sun Blocked now in its entirety Continues to illuminate From its celestial space It radiates a mystical peace Upon our earthen home The forest animals Howl, roar, yap, grunt, bark Their approval Or is it their fear As the moon accomplishes Its travel to create Totality While the domestic dogs Present in our space Are silent, one and all The Sun Blocked in its entirety Continues to shed light Upon our nest in the forest Sharing its jacket of gases The atmosphere we cannot see Hidden as it normally is By the Sun’s brilliance Is now the central player
The corona radiates its light out to our world The mountains and valleys of the moon Add to the display As they permit a sparkling red gem To shine through creating A Baily Bead A diamond ring of infinite carats Shines for all to briefly appreciate Before we must don once again Our protective eyewear
There is something In this experience Which penetrates my being And establishes residence Deep within Naming it Would be tantamount to taming it Beauty, awe These words do it no justice It is beyond even a reverence A hope An expansive, open feeling Deep within A joy An awareness Of how small we truly are Of how much more exists Beyond our ken.
Puffed out to retain warmth Spring colors emerging Clustering at the feeders Beside squirrels Red ones Grey ones And birds of all colors Sizes and shapes Similar in their billowing feathers Constructed to maintain heat Adding beauty Delight And entertainment On this blizzard-like April day.
They endure adapt and survive they enchant enthrall and enhance the wintry landscape their exquisite plumage on display as they displace each other on the preferred feeder the one protected by the eaves
Braving the proximity to the people in the kitchen they huddle close taking turns grabbing seeds to then crunch on as they congregate on the sill
Enjoy the food My feathered friends Until the snow ends The temps warm And mama bear Returns Enjoy the feast While I enjoy your presence
You teach patience Awaiting your turn to Grab a seed You speak of A compassionate creator Who cares for Each being Equipping all With tools for survival Strength, courage And perseverance Help you to brave the elements
Thank you to all My woodland friends For visiting And bearing witness To Our Loving Creator
The pine trees Became carnage Battered by the wind Under the weight of the spring snow Foundation weakened by the soft ground beneath They lie at roadside Pilons showing work had been begun Dedicated teams Working day into night Clearing the roads Allowing traffic to move Piles of broken branches Sawed off trunks Awaiting their sentence After succumbing to the storm They fell without respect For the surface below The waters of the dam Gathered whole trees in their space Pine needles clinging to the branches The trunk fractured Fresh edges of wood visible now The tree lies helplessly Upon the waters of the lake Hugging the edge Will it wander And be pulled over the spillway Where might it travel? What might it become?
Beside the road The earth is pulled up A ball of roots exposed Expanding out beyond the trunk Wider than two tall people Hand in hand Stretched across the earthen span The tree’s body Has been severed To allow passage over the road Across from the fallen member of the roadside forest Lies a pile of smaller branches Green needles intact Likely unaware There will be no more nourishment Sap will dry up But this stack of branches Destined for their demise Gives a scent of Christmas to the air How is it my heart Is trilling with childlike delight In the face of death? Might it be the Good Friday Heralding resurrection to come?
Is it truly less beautiful In March? The flakes are hurtling through the air Covering the land with fullers white Each flake a crystalline work of art Ready to sacrifice self as it is joins with others Creating a snowy comforter atop the land. The spring birds Cluster at the feeders Looking for protection And sustenance Only their hunger could Coerce me out on this blustery morning Clad in my Vermont Flannel Jammies. The birds watch from their perches In nearby trees and bushes As the black sunflower seeds are served Their thanks vibrate through the wintry air I sense their gratitude As my heart fills with warmth No need for words For we do not speak the same language
The snow continues to accumulate Measured by feet now The juncos stand out against the white backdrop Wearing their contrasting black plumage The goldfinches join the feast Bits of deep yellow have emerged Around their head and upper body Their bills are changing to pale orange As they release their drab winter coats And their partial molt begins
The chickadees are true friends Regular dinner guests throughout the year They crunch their seeds While looking in upon me Washing the dishes.
All day, The feast carries on The feathered guests Puff out their coats Holding warmth to their bodies While perching at table One with another.
Inside The fire roars The meatballs simmer My pen courses over the pages I snuggle under my blanket A knitted shawl across my shoulders Yes, it is spring The seeds are germinating Upon their heating pads Some seedlings have erupted Proudly displaying their cotyledon leaves The sun is higher in the sky The mittens, hat and heavy coat Were tucked away in the back of the closet
Spring is here on the calendar But on the ground And in the air Winter has reappeared Like it or not An inconvenience to some A gift to others Classic New England
Is the landscape any less beautiful in March With the sun now glistening off the crystalline coated earth?
Can true beauty be confined To a season Or an age?
There comes a time To move with graceful tempo Unhurried Enjoying each step As life’s journey Beckons you forth.
There is wisdom There is beauty To be seen, held, and respected. Life meanders at its own pace Irrespective of the speed and pounding of our footfalls We cannot grab more By rushing.
As we saunter Along forest’s path Let us take notice of The snow drops The tiny red buds gracing the branches The skunk cabbages Poking their heads out of the swampy land The birds fluttering overhead Calling to us “We’re back!” And the sun filtering light through barren branches.
There comes a time To saunter Absorbing and cherishing This precious adventure We call life.
It sounds Like a freight train Rumbling down the steel rails Crossing the country
I hear the ramping up And the whispering wane As the wind Traverses the woods
The trees, Over a hundred feet tall Sway Back, forth Left, right Circling Each to their own music They arch and spiral With the wind Not fighting it Just playfully waving
It is curious. They are all confined Within the same atmospheric conditions The gusts travel throughout But the trees Maples, aspens, oaks, evergreens and more are unique in their response There is no chorus line No limbs kicking in unison
It is a bit of a cacophony Of movement Each tree Feeling its own rhythm As it experiences the wind From its own angle With its own natural resistance Its own number of rings Calling out its age and robustness
Branches leap and lunge with grace Tree trunks lean and recover The power of the wind is heard and seen in the dance of the trees
They reside shoulder to shoulder Grounded deeply in the earth Roots reaching out Likely intertwined In the subterranean world Providing solid foundation Allowing the trees To bow to nature With resilience
The pillars of the forest Swipe against each other again and again As they move Like handheld fans On a hot summer day.
A snag A standing dead or dying tree Also called a wildlife tree May succumb to the power of the wind. The mystery resides In the survival Of the healthy, closely clustered Woody organisms of the woods
Retaining their individuality They move freely Branches collide With grace And accommodation As they dance in the wind.
Let us humans Listen to the lessons Of the trees As they dance in the winds of change.
From the silver bun Atop her dainty, thoughtful face To her rhythmic feet Dancing as one On the spinning wheel pedal She enters into the work of creation
She plants seeds of tomorrow As she tends to sheep Grazing in the meadow Others shear them for her Under her watchful eye, I imagine
Raw, washed wool Fills her basket now Lying in bunches It looks like matted clumps of cotton Greyish white With flecks of black From the hay in the meadow The dirt of the soil
She pulls off a piece So light, airy, and soft She cards it Almost a caress with two brushes Working the individual fine strands Until they lie parallel to each other She pulls off some for me to touch I cannot help but stroke fibers There is no itch No irritation It looks like a cirrus cloud Delicate and wispy.
She lines up the carded wool Holds some tension on the gathered strands As the spinning wheel Powered by the choreographed movement of her feet On the treadle Creates its own music and magic The bobbin pulls the fibers forward Twisting, twisting as it goes The fibers are joined now in a strand Friction has created strength No longer individual filaments But retaining the crimp of their natural state They twirl together uniting To create the gift of yarn A gift of warmth, beauty, and love.
Crumbs for the Journey 