The spirit
Is a young tree
And we are a gardener..

A garden of marigolds....orange, yellow and rust,
Bright, soft and rich, touched with golden dust.

Quiet and regal, sun kissed and fair,
Basil -citrus fragrance that mellows the moist air.

A thousand smiling marigolds, a thousand smiling suns,
Sweet nectar, ambrosia, for natures gentle ones.

Woven into garlands, yellow with tips  of red,
Woven into memories with many a words unsaid.

Love's hopes of an Indian  bride, clad in marigold,
With dreams wrought,  promises that two hearts dearly hold.

Tearful farewell to soldiers who traverse through destiny's doors,
A garland weaved with love for  those from across the seven shores.

And when the being is but a thought, as life grays and  olds,
Wrapped in a hearse of love, their love, with weeping marigolds.

An offering so humble yet flowers that Gods wear,
An offering with love,  with a souls quiet prayers.

Orange, yellow, rust..to love, to pray, to mourn,
Golden, sun kissed, blessed.. marigolds that life adorn.

There is a chill in the air now.
That wasn't there before.
As summer draws to a close,
and signs of autumn appear.
The blossoms drop their petals,
in the colder temperatures.
The rabbit's coat begins to transform,
as white fur replaces brown.
The leaves on the trees are changing
to gold,
ever so slowly...
leaf by leaf.
As summer will soon be beyond our reach.
The morning sun sleeps in later,
and darkness comes earlier in September.
The autumn winds can be chilly,
but the trees arrayed with brilliant colour
are so very pretty.
I curl up now,
wrapped cozy in my blanket,
with a good book and a hot cup of tea.
And I thank the Lord that each season
has good gifts stored within it.
For you and me.
If we would but open our eyes to see.

~~~

I picked up my feeble pen
To metaphor the sky
But I could not do it
No matter how I tried!

Clouds, like pale amoebas
Slow but surely climb...
No. That's too earthy
For something so Sublime!

Clouds, like clumps of cotton
Roll across the Moon...
No. Clouds, like wispy hair
Flow over a balloon... NO!

Clouds, pale sheer paisley silk
Slide over the moon's breast....

Yes! I DO like THAT one!
My pen can finally rest!


SoulSurvivor
(C) 9/13/2016

the wet summer
Crowns the head of a psalm-
    Unlacing it's proverbial season
The sun adjusts it's pilgrimage
    Making the images of the world:

    From green to yellow to orange
In a foliage of wind and water and ice
    The season begins
On the five senses;
What I see is what I feel
And the thoughts begin a momentum,
   Impending dazzlement
In the erosions of trees,
  Sculpting winds
Falling to the untouchable clarity,
    The soul and earth join,
These endless things
   At the cusp of change
With that familiar feeling.

In summertime
her free spirit ran
with bare feet
through the sunflowers
with the wind in her hair,
listening to the
trees sway and creek.
At that moment she was...  unstoppable

The silence of flowers
- their beauty;
language of colour
and form.
Beautiful scent
to a Bee
- foraging
- bumbling along
on a breeze.

Yesterday I
opened my old
poetry book, when
I found a pressed
autumn leaf.
Its fragrance took
me back in time,
back in that cold rainy day
Then I was so young
and beautiful
when it got caught in
my hair by the
mischievous wind,
bathed in sky's tears.
But now it's dried
And it will never
be as it was before.
Just like me...