Whispers of Spring
Spring green and faint yellow
Sap flowing amid stone and evergreens
A burst of red
Cows heading past lone bare tree
The hide-out of the Spring Peepers
Layers of Spring texture
Greening grass at end of day
Dying, Lying Croci
This year the Croci
may die cause they told a lie
saying it was Spring
what they said don’t mean a thing
for Spring arrives on Friday
and what the weathermen say
this year the winter just won’t go
and they’re forecasting snow
Phantasmagoric Love
come butterflies
Out of your nose
arises the scent of roses
And your embrace
of a crisp Spring day
Whilst stars fly
from your eyes
Your hair
the silky fur
of rabbit
As your heart
beats out
a symphony
enveloped in
the aura of
scintillating sunlight
on a calm sparkling lake
I surrender to
your arms
in an eternal embrace
I am yours
in the land of forever
The Magic of Moonlight
I miss the soft siren call
of the slinky moonlight,
the velvety voice of the moon
as she beckons to me
in the middle of the night
with her hypnotic magic
wielded in the wee hours.
I miss her enticing ways
calling forth
the howling of coyotes
echoing over the hills.
I miss the shadows
of the moonlight
as she luminates
the dark and empty road
and leaves behind a trail of shadows.
Cooped up in the city
nothing calls to me at 3AM
save little lights on
in the cubby holes
of the apartment house
across the street.
No slinky siren song sings
nor misty magic.
No coyotes howling here,
just the loud voices of drunks
stumbling home
in the harsh glare of streetlights.
“In the Hebrides of Scotland, it was common practice well into the nineteenth century for men to take off their caps to greet the morning sun and for women to bend their knee in reverence to the moon at night. These were the lights of God. They moved in an ancient harmony that spoke of the relationship of all things. And they witnessed also to the eternal rhythm between the masculine energies and the feminine energies that commingle deep in the body of the universe. The Celts were familiar also with the practice of being guided by the creatures. The birds of the air, the fish of the sea, the animals of the earth had not lost their senses. They were viewed as still being alive to the deepest rhythms of creation and to the interrelationship between all things.” (“Christ of the Celts” by J. Philip Newell)
Being in Winter
How higher they be
than me
for they know how
to just Be
always
in the present
in the Silence
so profound in winter
but in the forever now
I look fearfully ahead
towards a future of endings
and losses
of attachments
acquired over the years
none more strong
than our love
I used to know
how to just be
like a tree
spontaneously
when very young
now I seek to Be
as I was in youth
in rapture
not just in nature
but always
as the sheep
in the deep
of winter.
Follow the Yellow-Lined Road
My husband recounts a story of being a little boy riding in the backseat of his parents car and blowing kisses to the telephone polls because they looked so lonely.
The Lone Fir Tree
A lone fir tree
stands stalwart in a forest of red
watching over the turtles sleeping peacefully
in their hibernaculum
in the icy pond
as God
watches over us
A silent night of peace to each of you
and a berry, merry Christmas!
Love always,
Ellen
Christmas Blues
Dedicated to all those sick, lonely, destitute… anyone who feels blue this time of year…
