Gloaming

I love that there is a line of light on the horizon,

a gleam just beyond

A glow of grey at the billowing edge of green,

the globes atop tree branches

It is dark in the corners –

But there, far away, it is bright.

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Silver Insomniac

There’s a pool of light in the backyard
It spills over the tree tops
but appears to be carved out of the grass
an oval grotto of white,
silver amongst the shadows

If it weren’t for insomnia
I wouldn’t have seen it,
Wouldn’t have seen the cool, clear light
bright amidst the dark

Being awake at this hour seems unnatural,
is unnatural
in terms of the real world

But in the magic of these moonbeams
I am wide open

Looking for Signs of Life

A brown curled claw
skittering along the ground

Singular movement amidst
the frozen expanse of pavement

Only when you get close enough to see the fingers,
knuckles scraping the rocky surface,
can you distinguish the knobs of an oak leaf,
stem protruding like a tail

Propelled by the wind

a legion of birds wrapped in wing
a chipmunk
a squirrel,
a lizard scampering by

All alive according to the eye

But in this cold raw place between snow and spring
dry, brittle leaves are all that dance
born on the rhythm of weather patterns and wishful thinking

Smash the Taskmaster

I will not feel guilty for doing what the Spirit moves me to at any given time.
I will revel in the mindless work of plucking pine needles from fingers of moss.
I will lose myself in the monotony.
I will let my mind drift along meandering paths –

    not to the should’ve, could’ve, would’ves.

I will write for the pleasure of it,

    not the drudgery.

I will not let unfinished business ruin the relish of the deal on the table.

There is no sense in feeding our souls if we are constantly counting calories.

open

Just Below the Surface

The earth is still brown, the ground dull and bleak.
Leaves of brittle rust, crumpled and curled in upon themselves.
Evergreen needles even a muted hue.

But the air is different.
A hawk cries out as it soars above the seemingly dormant trees.
The deer move, the squirrels feed.

The snow looks sad in its blankets now softened around the edges.

insidecaledon.com

insidecaledon.com

Piles of sand seal the seams of the roads.

Nature’s energy vibrates just below the surface.
All of creation holds its breath.
Breathe deep and release it.

Scenes from a Sun-kissed Morning

 

The days are warm enough, the nights cool enough that each morning my girls ask me if it’s rained. Caught in a ray of sunlight, the fog tricks you into thinking it’s misting, which it is, I suppose. The dew clings to every angular surface.

 

 

I feel like a studio photographer!

I feel like a studio photographer!

So delicate.  I love the texture of the buds and petals.

So delicate. I love the texture of the buds and petals.

 

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Scenes from a Secret Neighbor

Walking in a woodland wonderland . . .
I have woods! In my yard! And the woodland creatures that come with!

Quite a difference from our little suburban plot.

After a hurricane, a blizzard, the taking down of six trees, and the impending purchase of a wood stove, we’ve got lots of wood laying around. Lots to chop, split, stack, etc. In the meantime, the piles have become part of the landscape. So much so, that little friends have moved in. This little guy peeking out is going to be supremely pissed when we clear everything out!

Can you see me now?

Can you see me now?

Non-superstitious Scenes from September 13

I set out on an errand with no particular subject in mind for today’s photos, but camera safely stowed in the passenger seat.  Then I spied this scene on the side of the road.

I couldn't decide between this shot, wild grasses and golden rod framing it out . . .

I couldn’t decide between this shot, wild grasses and golden rod framing it out . . .

Or this one with the focus on the reds and reflections.

Or this one with the focus on the reds and reflections.

 

 

Scenes from September 12

We all grow mold and mildew the longer we hang around so I guess today’s subject is appropo for my birthday.  But my daughter did say the fungi issuing from the sides of this tree were fairy steps.  Perhaps I also can inspire imagination and delight on some level.  I’ll have to keep that in mind when I blow out my candles.

You say fungi, I say fairy steps

You say fungi, I say fairy steps

shroom closeup

Scenes from September 6

My oldest and middle daughters used to hold their breaths as they passed this graveyard, something the oldest picked up from one of the other kids on the school bus.  As they learned the lay of the land, but hadn’t quite mastered it, they inadvertently forgot to do so one day.  When she lived to tell the tale, my oldest announced, we don’t have to hold our breaths anymore; nothing bad’s going to happen.

Not that I thought anything bad was going to happen, but I think I was holding my breath for quite sometime before I felt I had the lay of the land.  A year later and we all breath more freely. (except when we have trash for the dump in the back of the car, which was where we were headed when I made my husband stop for these photos 😉 )

Tell me when the cemetery's coming, Mom!

Tell me when the cemetery’s coming, Mom!

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Small is the gate . . .

Small is the gate . . .

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Dappled quiet light from above

Dappled quiet light from above

 

 

 

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