Look for my mark when you are passing this way a symbol you will notice but others will ignore, dismissing as nothing but wear and tear or spotty paint, faded into odd markings but you will know, this is the way I'll be waiting at the end of the road
listen the wrens are warbling their watery tune sending notes clear as prayer into the blue heaven what more do you want from a Tuesday near Solstice rise up and sing
in this season of bare trees and sepia toned landscape when the world has gone mad I can not help but find beauty in these last days each sun rise, a gift uncommon joy found in the light falling on walls of faded pear and aquamarine the bone structure of time etched across the garden the grace of winter in its quiet reflection the freedom of loosing all constraints and ties to whatever went before until I am left boundless, evergreen
I'm all out of caring what the world has to say its discontent, malcontent, pervasive anger has churned enough muck and silt from the rivers bottom that most folks can no longer see clear water how lovely the leaves are as they float downstream and the heron, how still
I was very moved by this poem posted by Rattle Magazine today,https://www.rattle.com/a-question-of-time-by-kathleen-a-dale/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+rattle%2FCNOS+%28Rattle%3A+Poetry+for+the+21st+Century%29
laid bare, with jutting rocks exposed
only soil left, tilled and furrowed
detritus of years neglected
laced with vines and broken glass
bits of crockery and plastic wheels
of toy trucks long gone
vanquished by Spring’s lengthening hours
rake, shovel and glove
the fence bed will be softened by mulch
and hydrangeas
its poverty now enriched with sweat
and composted manure
afternoon light changing in waves
tidal pool of hours
filling and unfilling
unfilling as emptying
but time does not fill or empty
there is always a reckoning
of dusk
then twilight
then owl call
then darkest night
when the black moon pulls hours
in her tides
and unfills the day
like petrichor or gloaming or maybe alpenglow
there should be a name
for days such as this
a particular way to frame a morning
so that you could just say
this
and everyone would immediately remember
a singular shining glow
the scent of the breeze
and sound of the wind
whispering thru the springing light
of a day
just like today
I dream of roses blooming
Red, so deeply perfumed,
heady with fragrant spice.
Their petals bleed across my chest,
stigmata of blood soft petals
pooling into rivers deep and wide, so wide
I lose the receding shore
until the ocean draws closer
and I inhale sticky salt air
filled with the scent of roses,
drowning pools of bloom
thecourseofourseasons 