Purple Coneflower
Monarch butterfly alights
Double delightful.


Morning dew sparkles
Tiny droplets glistening
Sunlight dances wildly.


Springtime misting rain
Tender garden shoots reaching
Thirstily drinking.

You live your entire life.
You are born and you grow.
You go to school. You learn.
You make friends and fall in love for the first time.
Your heart is broken. You learn to deal with pain.
You walk in the woods and learn to stop and feel what Nature has to offer.
You have kids and become a parent,
And you learn to give them the best you have to give.
You learn to let them go and still love them.
You work. You donate time to charity.
And you continue to grow.
You learn to laugh more easily and to give advice more willingly.
You pray in church and in the woods.
You travel to new countries.
You hike in the mountains and experience all that life has to give.
You touch others with your joy, your character and your heart.
Your friends cherish you and you don’t even know this because it’s not the way your mind works.
You grow older and you say good-bye to loved ones and friends,
And you still find time for others.
You are one of life’s good ones.
And then you become ill and begin to fail and after a time you are gone.
And life goes on.
Yet, believe me when I say that you are not lost from us.
Your spirit lives on in all whom you have touched.
And so in this way,
Your life is eternal.
Yes, Mom, it truly is.

Life and death,
Wrapping around,
Pushing and pulling daily,
Bring a clarity not seen before.
Memory keeps those lost to us alive in our hearts,
And joy lifts the spirit, like when cradling a new born child.
Today drifts into tomorrow,
Where one’s dreams of the future
Lie waiting to unfold.
Here and now,
We live and love,
And feel the march of time.
Yet in that knowledge there is happiness,
Because to remember the past,
Is to help map out the future.
Is it too simple to say that love is what fuels us?
No. It is a truth worth remembering,
And so overwhelming,
That I am left speechless,
By its unerring simplicity.

Out in the rolling countryside
Enjoying the first signs of spring
Stopped for a while by a farmer's field
And listened to a bluebird sing.
His song was oh so cheerful
As it echoed through the trees
Carried across the fertile land
On a gentle, drifting breeze.
The world was awakening all around
From a long cold winter's sleep
To bask beneath a warming sun
Like a promise there to keep.
I didn't want to leave that place
So I tarried for an hour or so
And planted seeds in my memory
And left them there to grow
So that later on a winters day
I might return there for a while
And seek again that calming scene
In my heart and in my smile.

She rides a painted pony
Over rolling grassland hills.
She walks a shaded woodland path,
And listens to the wind whispering.
Sometimes she stops to breathe the scent
Of a fragrant upland meadow,
Or drinks to quench her thirst
From a rushing mountain stream.
She uses the images in her young mind
To take her far away
From the filthy city her parents have taken her
While fleeing the ravages of war.
She travels from there often,
In the quiet of her mind,
And gives her youthful spirit a chance
To grow into something beautiful,
Just like in her dreams.

The boy loved the icy winter,
And playing in the snow,
Sledding and building snowmen,
Snowballs for him to throw.
One day he awoke quite ill,
Confined there to his bed,
His best friend Bob came to visit,
And panicked he'd soon be dead.
"No," the father calmed him, "not my only son.
Not on my watch he won't.
This sickness will soon be done."
He thanked Bob for his thoughtful visit,
And waved to him goodbye,
Then turned to his boy and hugged him,
Wiping a tear drop from his eye.
"Don't you ever leave me,"
The father pleaded and held him tight,
And stayed watchful right beside him,
Throughout the cold dark night.
In the morning his son awoke,
Feeling chipper and bright and gay,
While his father gave a joyful shout,
For Bob to join them on this happy day.
Later on that glorious week,
While playing happily in the snow,
The boy turned to Bob and said,
"There's something you should know.
I really didn't mind being sick,
But when all is said and done,
I like being outside much better."
And turned his face up to the sun.

They went every summer,
Hiking along the shoreline,
Hand in hand,
exploring.
She was an artist,
Who once did a painting of the rounded rocks and grey driftwood they found.
She called it Sticks and Stones,
An enduring testament to their love.
Laura is taking care of Connie, now,
As her memory fades with Alzheimer's,
She reminds her of them walking together along that long ago shore,
A time, though she may have forgotten,
She captured forever in the soul of that painting.
Their love for each other,
And her ability as an artist,
Lets those memories live on,
Forever.

Bright sun reflecting off snow covered pines.
Ice crystals twinkling in merry abandon.
Hills drift into a hazy distance.
They walk hand and hand,
Touching the day with their smiles.
Hours slip by unnoticed.
Afternoon fades into dreamy twilight.
Day ends and night creeps over the cold land.
They warm themselves snug by the fireplace,
Deep into the night.
Then, a sleepy gentle caress and a sad smile,
A sweet kiss good night,
Until at last tomorrow,
When he takes her for her operation,
And leaves her all alone,
And then can doing nothing,
But sit and remember,
And wait.

One day…not much is there.
Mom's eyes are dim with memory faded,
Words come hard and the spirit is flagging.
Then, it is as if a song begins,
And through the deep recesses of forgetfulness,
There emerges a kind of light,
Renewed energy and a plan.
Conversation begins. Words once forgotten form.
She smiles as she remembers how to speak.
“Let’s do this,” she says, and we do,
As she takes in her surroundings,
Observing and assimilating,
Talking and asking questions,
Almost like in the past.
Close enough, anyway.
And I am happy for her.
We sit and chat like before.
Memories rekindle. Today is recognized,
And tomorrow becomes a very really possibility.
I saw her mind dance today,
In perfect step and time and rhythm with itself.
It was as if she was sixteen again,
Jitterbug dancing in her parents basement,
Getting ready for a dance contest.
My fingers tapped in time,
Humming along with her as we talked,
And the music played on and on.