thunderstorms the soil fertilized by those before
the long score dread of autumn
the killing cold of three months of winter
the bones calcium

the work of maggots
the rotting excrements
the boiling mad wolf growl
the poor rabbit's soul gone

the world spinning around an axis
of the strongest surviving hot gasses
or the moon influencing the rising
fall of tides

mountains of ashes oceans of sediment
the seeds left last year
and those long forgotten
that keep

in their knowledge their inevitability
the genetics the flowering new rose
brightening in the sun
this spring

He pulls away, precariously balanced
above the raucous creek slicing through
the campground’s city-like togetherness

she protectively hovers, hands cupped
inches from his slender back, prepared to grab
honoring his need for independence

the crooked lodge pole leans
toward what little sun is bestowed
upon it by its larger brethren

a mother, a child
a tree, a stream
soft light.

your sadness is showing,
put it away.
no one wants to see
your depression today.

it's not time for that,
some might say,
its so unbecoming
to act that way.

your anxiety is showing,
tuck it in.
the world shows no interest
in what's under your skin.

take a deep breath,
that's where you begin,
or, that's what they say
with a pat and a grin.

your illness is showing,
keep it away.
no one is interested
in that anyway.

but by letting it fester,
and by letting it stay,
it might make me
disappear some day.

In my photo album there's a black and white snapshot from your old Kodak camera. I'm sitting upon your stalwart shoulders with a backdrop of mountainous desert. Upon your height my head is above the hills my smile brighter than the whole blue sky.

I still remember that day. We went to Picacho Peak with a picnic lunch and climbed through the rocks, investigated the arroyos. The desert was alive with wildflowers. I collected some and brought them to you - you named every one.
Bluish-purple lupine. Yellow rabbit's bush.
Orange African daisies. Bright desert poppies. Indian paintbrush, flaring strokes of carmine fire. Pale pink globe mallow.

You have such a brilliant mind, a scientist in love with nature. I think you collected some seed to plant with the cacti in your backyard garden...

I still remember. It was a day that stands like that peak in my memory. The breeze in my curls way up high, upon those mountainous shoulders. It whispered to me of the desert spirits. And our guardian angels sang of the wonders of freedom.

I know you heard it, too.


♡ your daughter,
                   Catherine


SoulSurvivor
(C) 2/20/2016

Imagine powder blue , morning flowers ...
Green clover nestled beneath swirling eddies , enraptured by Summer hay and sunflower fields , the chorus of Mourning dove , Brown Thrasher and laughing Crow ..Village church bells announcing each daylight hour , quiet Sunday mornings broken by Pileated Woodpecker and Bluejay ...The smell of Honeysuckle and fresh cut grass , burning leaves and Sassafras ..

I dislike Spring pruning
All those dead branches that must be stripped
To bear good fruit, so necessary
I’m no Master Gardener
I’ve made mistakes before, confused
Choosing which ones to cut away
Which ones I should let stay
Make no mistake
With proper pruning the Springtime sun
Magnificently promises
Seemingly spent branches
Flowing silently, secretly with new sap
New buds, fresh leaves and blossoms
And delectable new fruit
Fruit so succulent
Better because of the pruning
May I cut away the dead branches of my life
And may I not mind the pruning
Waiting for the Master Gardener’s promise

Lady in a gray dress
calling this a wintry mix

A coastal low with rain and sleet

I reckon so, but it sure seems
like the winter blues to me.