Indigenous Peoples’ Day

Moon beyond the westward trees nevertheless reaches across to tempt the small stars to rest in her embrace,
Only a few, stronger stars remain on watch.
Eastward, sun calls the others to her.

Hunter, Big Dog, Little Dog, Twins, these only remain to guard the sky.

Mist rises from river and beaver bog up into perfectly clear sky.

Balance everywhere.

Gods chuckling with delight at a plan come together.

October 12th

Can a tree be a poem?
I think that tree right there is a poem
and I will try to tell you about it:

Yellow, so yellow, the sun at sunset, so rich that it shifts toward orange
with stark, dark limbs
which reach eastward toward the gap between the sister-trees
which reach toward the pale yellow-green and the orange and the red and the pine and the nearly black hemlock
as though declaiming.

Can a tree be a poet?
I think that tree right there is a poet
and I will try to translate for you:

Sweet rain,
Dark, soft earth,
Sun, sun, sun,
Dance with me, sisters,
in the breeze.

National Coming Out Day, 2019

I should write about NCOD and wish everyone luck.
Yes, much luck to you and bon courage!

Also, the stars are lovely this morning, clear as a bell.

Yet… the dog got sprayed by a mink, so here is today’s poem:


October 7th

The sky was full of pale, pale amethysts this morning when I stepped out.
They had been ground fine enough to hang in the clouds, no more massive than a bit of water vapor,
casting purple – or the hint of purple – across the sky and my eye and the day.

That was lovely.
Here’s to a lovely thing this morning.

October 4

The dogs and I walked in a world of black and white and grey and it was magnificent!
Familiar things in an elegant mode.

It’s October and the First Frost (not Robert, older) will come soon.
I don’t think it was last night, there lay no sign on the grasses this morning.

But soon.

Things are still blooming in the meadow – hardy things, whose names I do not know.
One of them called to me – a tall-ish stalk that split into three long-ish stems the top halves of which bore little flowers like starbursts along the length – in the manner of lupines or delphinia but in miniature, do you see?

Of course in the dawnlight, these flowers were grey or white and could have been any color paler than grass.

This morning I fell under the enchantment of a fairy-wand plant, emitting starbursts, growing in threes all the better to do magic.

Third of October

Why is it hard?
I get it, leaving cozy blankets and pillows and house is hard,
but the reward is fresh and deer tracks and mist on my face
and happy dogs.

I’ll keep trying, that I promise.

Though you break your vows a thousand times, come yet again, come.

~ Rumi

October First

Marvellous, fantastical, otherworldly mist this morning
I breathe.
As deeply as I can.

Moist and magic heal nose, mouth, throat, lungs, blood, muscle, sinew, bone.

Grey, grey, my beautiful grey lifts up gold and bronze and orange and salmon and red and just-over-the-line-unbelieveable-red-that-makes-me-think-of-purple. What color is that, that shade of red? The color of the tupelo leaves?

Grey, grey, my beautiful grey lifts these up and reveals their numen.