I saw a giant flock of Wrens
Fling themselves across the dawning sky
Like a scattering of onyx jewels,

Flowing like the tide at ebb,
This way and that, swirling
In fantastic breezes I couldn’t feel.

As suddenly as they came, they left,
Headed for some magic place  
That only birds know how to find.

The sky seems empty now they’re gone
Even though a brilliant sunrise
Lurks behind the distant mountains

And promises a light show of it’s own.
The birds became an Obbligato
To this morning sunrise Etude
And I am enriched for sharing it.
ljm

I’m a written and published open book,
you just have to read past the first chapter.
You skimmed the pages and took a look
at the last line to see if there was a happily ever after.
But like most things it’s up to interpretation,
left open ended in way for a hopeful sequel,
‘cause like all things true it’s plagued with complication,
but our story has no end and it has no equal.

And you, you were my favourite memoir,
your depth lined the thesis of a never ending essay.
I became inspired so I held an impromptu seminar,
a whole panel to if your picture was sepia or artistically grey.
I memorized every single thing you said,
every cryptic metaphor, every perfect rhyme.
I’ve lost count of how often that I’ve fully read,
and I still don’t understand after all of this time.

You’re a novel and I’m a novelty,
but you need a title; what should it be?
I’ve been writing you so that the whole world can see,
the way you shine bright effortlessly.

You were my own personal thesaurus and dictionary,
providing different words to dress up each thought.
You’re a first and only edition; what a rarity,
laced with metaphors and satire that’s barely caught.
You’re what Shakespeare aspired to always write,
and you accomplished it simply by being born.
I’d translate you to brail so those without sight,
could hear about you and the beauty they now mourn.

You’re a novel and I’m a novelty,
no need to proofread, no cause for editing.
I’ve been writing you so that the whole world can see,
the way you shine bright, always illuminating.

I’m a prologue,
and we’re the conclusion.
My authors note; the words of a demagogue,
but the details still lack any illusion.

You’re a novel and I’m a novelty,
I’ve memorized every word and dissected them cautiously.
I’ve been writing you so the whole world can see,
and once they skim the synopsis; they’ll never stop reading.

for me
  
    ever since my mother died
    on the day spring began
    eleven years ago

my joy over the annual reburgeoning of life
also evokes the memory of death

I know
death is unique and final
     spring is eternal

but all the lovely flowers sprouting forth
always remind me of my mother’s love
of flowers and all other natural beauties
like sea shells  pine cones  precious stones …

maybe it was appropriate
    after all
for her to leave this earth
when it brought forth new life again
    bursting into renewal
as if to compensate us
for our loss

Noting how the birds believe in courtship
on grass
in trees
with song
in sky
They seek each other--
hoping
dancing
singing
Starting nests to please and
bringing food and
silly trinkets
Cooing
muttering
flappings
Taking so much time

He with color and display a-strutting
She,
founders
tentative in disbelief
around the edges of his glory
mesmerized

All
a tender sloping
toward desire

I am so honored that "Moments in Time" - my tribute to my son, the son we lost to a brain tumor, our first-born, our sunshine was selected as the Daily. It brings honor to me...and to him. But more than this, I am so honored by all my loving, beautiful, compassionate friends here who read, who liked or loved, or commented with such caring. Though it can't heal the brokenness of the heart, feeling such love, understanding, and compassion is like warm and gentle hands cupped around a tiny wounded bird. Friends help hold together the pieces of the shattered heart, allowing it to go on beating and loving - even more deeply.