Woodland child, you have lost the moon
to walk a path, dark of fallen trees
sorrow of your sacred homeland camps besieged
the old ways buried, deep the red earth swallowed
all the precious souls, have flown far into the endless night of eagle
feathers swirl, scattered at this ancient altar

In the ashen air
always your heart remains, your wisdom blood breathes
like the sun of fire, your dance of vivid painted colors
surreal dream of Tishomingo, trading beaded leathers
through the ages, children rooted in trees and fields
medicine men smoked in visions of waterfall suns
all of our days, deep this bloodline runs

Eyes, crystalline, shine awake
newborn suns stream, blue light
mists of fog breaking through
cool breath, of forest's wet
steaming bark, clouds of water smoke
trees breathe deep, drinking dawn
mosses warm in wooded sun
raven call penetrates the soul, an ageless echo
pulse of forest drums, awake my heart
in birded rhythmic song, connection, meditation
I am home, I am home

Finding your poems, there, all but faded
dust of pages, your fleeting song of days
secret book of you, lost among the ruins, laid
and there I stayed, many an hour
and could not tear away

Deathly quiet all the sky, distant black, pitching
birds, sudden screeching turns, disappearing
windows rattled, beneath banging shutters
awaiting the pain of centrifuge
a house, like glass to shatter
shards of cutting winds

Little king of sun toasting petal,
Cups the air with swirling wings
Flashes, flurries of wetted trials,
How you drink of nectar singing,

With invisible wings let whirring,
So robed in arc of rainbows' sky,
Even lofted mist of morn stirring,
All the shaped air, a moving eye.

Of all the rain
it had to be
this
blue umbrella
black-water
wet cat
soul-drenching
dark Georgia night
rain.

r ~ 6/29/14

Some say
she is lost to writing poems
snippets, little vignettes of beauty
so much nature inspired, obsessed
with green, botany driven desires
forever in skies, blue, or black with stars
meteor showers, falling, melting
like the liquid silver, red sea of mars
crashing waves, her days
tossed, tumbled, stumbling onto poetry
there is no fault, in words
no shame to be made
would be a sorrowful price to pay
she is writing to find
some truths, a sleuth, a seeker
of going within, without doubt
writing to find herself
most days searching out signs of life
to feel what it would be like, to be
in trees, in leaves, to sleep in green towers
of garden lily bowers
to finally dream in lucid colors, surreal
climbing invisible ladders
in orchards of apple blossom Springs
to sing, sing, sing

poems flow from sheer habit.