In the canoe, in my heart, the dark of her curls blend with the gold of sunrise.
With water glassy we paddle, unison’s time, rhythm’s endearing.
Over her shoulder she smiles. Hope leaps. Love pains at future’s parting.
It’s not often colors blend such as these.
Mercurial silver of water. Hazel of eye. Red of lips.
It’s not often to welcome falling into depths like those below …
… when she must leave.
Mornings are variety
With sun edging over horizons, red then orange then yellow bursts through white or gray or nothing at all,
Only blue.
Mornings can happen over oceans, bays, sounds, lakes, river, streams,
And even creeks.
They can happen over emerald fields of wheat, over shadowed desert sands, over forest and valley and mountain.
Mornings are minted daily,
New with fresh, breezy breaths or sultry, humid doldrums or with glistening dew on blades of grass.
Enjoy mornings. Revel in them. Allow their touch and tease and laugh to slip inside with each warm and golden sunbeam.
For mornings are these things and so much more.
Surely you have mornings of your own.
Be a morning.
When I keep an attitude of gratitude, the day is so much sweeter.
You?
As the budding rose is to the rising sun
drawing forth in fiery splendor
so are we
As the smile of a child is to the parent’s heart
bringing forth love in all its mysterious ways
so are we
As the gull is to wave tops
endlessly seeking above crests foamy and golden at sunrise
so are we
As the oak leaf is to emerald grandeur
awaiting the final downward drift with gust and gale
so are we
As we each seek our path, yearning above all else to
lock hope away in our hearts
instead
set it free
Allow hope to bloom, to laugh, to soar
and
at the end
you will pass forth with joy and thanksgiving
filled to everlasting
As we look at others
we should look at ourselves
As we walk in judgement
we should judge ourselves
As we wish for ourselves
we should wish for others
As life is to live
so life be to give
if only to give the gift
of wishing well
A flickering fluttering triangle of wing and body
Colors blurring, wind carrying aloft
During the seeking
Her goal, her sole existence is to feed for growing
To lay eggs for living
To continue the cycle endlessly
Of newness
Caterpillar
Chrysalis
Oh, what life to live
Flying on current’s edge
Constantly in hazard’s way
All the while settling onto
Beauty
Of leaf and petal
Of scent and color
Kissed with dewdrops left by
The Morning.
I might imagine, or I might not, that love is a smile beneath a small straight nose, deep brown eyes, and dark chocolate tresses falling around my face as she sits above me.
I might imagine, or I might not, that over her head, green leaves laugh in the summer breeze, and lake waves lap whispers against round stones.
I might imagine, or I might not, a soft kiss, moist and tender, warm upon my lips, and the brush of fingertips at my brow, with words of welcome.
I might imagine, or I might not, a mountain trail, rough with stones for tripping, slow with time for talking, waterfalls crisp with splashing, and the summit for rest.
I might imagine, or I might not, two sets of footprints pressed into wet sand, hands clasped, sun overhead, and at night, stars.
But I shall not imagine, for I could imagine more that would not be imagining, for I am thankful, grateful more than I can say, reaching for her hand over twenty years hence from dreaming, and still we laugh, sigh, love.
And we imagine.
When I died I fell face first into the snow, oh, the icy crust, the millions of tiny crystalline knives.
When I coughed my lung’s bright blood upon the blanket of white, I realized I would never see her again.
When I realized I would never see her again, I willed my heart to beat, though powerless to have it beat forever.
When my breaths slowed, stopped, and when my heart faltered, stopped, and when my eyes closed, I willed my soul to join another …
And he fell, and another, and he fell, and another, and she fell, and half-a century later I live, a mist, a memory, a dream desired, a hope unrealized.
And yet, I love, and yet, life offers me hope, if only in the most fleeting moments.
Once we lay beneath an oak. It was an ancient thing, gnarled and gray-barked, branches hanging low over the wide river, leaves twisting in the daytime breeze, whispers of young love’s yearning desire.
And natures faint aromas, the gray smell of water on the air, leaf mold and earthy hints of times past, and her hair, as if she rinsed her silky strands with morning rain captured just for her within the petals of a rose.
And at night, oh, at night, beside the fire, millions of stars, constellations, a meteor’s dim minute streak, the oak’s leaves aflutter, matching moth’s wing beats around a lantern.
The stuff of dreams, the dreams of hope, soft whispers, softer kisses, love’s final goodbye.
When I died.
The silver fishes dance
and waves break
and pelicans wheel
turning into wing-driven darts that
dive beneath foamy crests.
A gull’s complaint.
And sand that is warm on
the soles.
And on the Souls.
Air heavy
salt-laden taste.
Children’s footprints and mother’s laughter
with father’s smiles.
And the surf meets
with gentle whispering breaths.
And the silver fishes dance.
Individually they
flutter
together a curtain drawn
to be amazed by.
Nature often gives
and takes away;
it often shares the simplest of scenes
which gifts us a
calm smile
enjoying the vivid white brightness
perhaps the scarlet blood drop of a cardinal
on the feeder or
the woodpecker’s vivid bonnet.
then the flakes slow
a scattering against
lifting clouds
and as the sunlight breaks through
it all turns to ashes.
j willis sanders 