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Text of Poems - Nature and Spiritual Solace
Buttermilk Falls, Ithaca (2003)
Homage to Pablo Neruda (2003)
In October Drear (2005)
Oxalis (2003)
The Sumac Bower (2002)
Winter Fog (2002)
Wintersong (2005)
Buttermilk Falls, Ithaca
Spring had come late and suddenly;
Flowers tumbled over one another
in their haste to bloom
before the wilting sun of summer.
The scent of lilac hung heavily in the air,
butterflies swimming in the perfume.
The startling warmth beckoned
pale paroled suppliants to the sun
basking on rocks in the tumbling falls.
I wandered barefoot by the stream
singing to the grass
and twining violets in my hair.
Homage For Pablo Neruda
Every act
of taking life’s breath
into ones lungs
and reluctantly giving it back
is a pious precious moment.
Each instant of existence
is an eternity
of simple abundant pleasure.
The essence of living
is in touch and response
ebb and flow
question and answer.
Knowing that your life
can change in that instant
if you remember to be awake
In October Drear
The peach leaves are rustling on their branches.
The strawberry leaves are bleeding into the sky.
The milkweed leaves are following the pods in their cracking.
The few golden poplar leaves dance in feathery branches.
The last of the blackberries raisin for the remaining finches.
I step up on to the weathered rails of the asparagus bed,
and the plumes of the spent stalks brush my thighs, hips, waist.
I reach into the gnarled branches above me and
pluck a blushing Granny Smith apple,
twisting off its still-green leaves.
It is perfect and plump, and it is for me.
With reverence and rapture
my lips meet its brilliant skin
and I am one with its supple flesh
under a gray October sky.
Why does the Oxalis keep coming back?
I never water it
I only occasionally remember to
remove handfuls of dead leaves
from its dusty ceramic bowl.
Each time I am convinced of its demise
and prepare to pitch the dead mass
I am foiled by happy new leaves, peaked blossoms seeking the sun
and tender, bowed shoots
pushing through the loam and gnarled stems.
The Muscadine grapes hang high in the pine trees,
pendulous and sweet.
The sea of reedy grasses
parts before us under a late summer sun
Waving dill, butterflies in suspended animation,
milk weed pods ready to burst.
I’ll lead you to the sumac bower;
Yarrow and Indian paintbrush lining our path.
Lay down with me in the lacy shadows,
make the tufted grass our bed.
Join our song with the meadowlarks and the locusts
and our fragrance with the sunlit herbs.
Gruff, grizzled Prometheus
stretching arthritic, scaled fingers vainly toward the sky.
Lithe, arching, lacy poplar
reaching in silent prayer through the mist.
The clouds sigh a fine dander
The trees flaunt a hoary fur
The reed-dry bents of the coreopsis
play one another in the frozen breeze.
They call to the grasshoppers long dead;
to the crickets buried beneath the mulch.
Lonely and hollow are their songs
wailing across the deepening snow.
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