I vault the sky – blue is a trite fancy —
the expanse, the clear color of longing
The horizon gives way
to empyreal heights
and delicious air, my face
to the eye of the sun
Is it calling or indulgence to ride
the wings of one’s own prayers?
I could sleep in the wind.
I hold onto this incarnation of
dreams but the sun revives me
from slumber on a pillow of dirt
and the sweet draught of
yesterday still in my throat,
I try not to disturb my broken wing.
A vine of dreams:
luscious grapes resign all fear
They bruise underfoot
barrels brim in earnest dark
and time turns into wine.
He dressed the day with clouds
and spilled a sea of stars
into the night
calling each by name
The night's aria declares
His deep pleasure
The universe is intoxicated with glory.
The Autumn wind gasps
the surety of Winter
The geese, one giant wing
a moving geometry
that angles into the wind
How do they know?
where to go
when to stop
Trees give up leaves like paper hopes
swept into the slumberous season
The gray whale pursues the southern waters of Baja
to warm her heavy womb
How does she know?
how to birth
what to eat
Spring forgives the freeze
and laughs to live again
in the resurrection of color
before the ferocious Summer
The dolphins' dance is
a cadence of instinct
in waves wooed by moontide
The Earth sounds a symphony of reverence.
We build skyscrapers and businesses and poems
and the tides rush up and claim
the sand castles of our dreams
i, the crown of creation
trifling, a mark of punctuation,
know less than the beasts
that play and live as they ought.
The little guy fell in love with this song by Chris Tomlin, Sovereign, when I was practicing for church last year.
I think Tennyson played better here. He was 5 1/2. In the zone. I quickly grabbed the camera:
she bathed in sweat just
from breathing, shoulders
rouge in the evening blaze
as she balanced on the edge
the decisive rain
disarmed the sun,
a zealous s t u t t er
that drenched her to a start
and she smiled
as she fell headlong into
After I’d resigned to returning from the mountains with no poem in hand, this emerged over evening dishes. Originally Ode to the Adventurers, it was my contribution to the digital post-camp chorus of What a blast! It was wonderfuls from the families. In the spirit of roughing it, I’ve resisted the temptation to refine it more than I did.
The dirtiest – and so happiest,
Mom discovered – our boy’s ever been
Wading by the lakeside, painting by lantern:
blue nails and purple rocks
Star Wars duel amid dirt kicked up by kids
undying like their dreams, finger-laced
head bands knit by friendship
A boy’s first campfire:
“Mom, can we stay here ten nights?”
Faces glazed with sleep and S’mores
Night’s smoke murmur of
moms and dads glad in company
California fire circle a shadow of fellowship
in an immortal place
Inside their tents, little ones burrow into fresh
memories of blowing bubbles under star sky,
and the smell of charcoal
We came home
baptized with dirt and love, to
the burden and relief of laundry;
small irredeemable socks, a far cry from white
the most purpose-driven shower of my life
(Notice Mom’s preoccupation with dirt?)
We breathed Earth, Sky, Water
Enchanted Trail indeed.
We interrupt this program to bring you Food News
with the Holistic Chef.
Rather than wait until the end of the year, let me go ahead and introduce the blog that was my first love.
This blog – where I write you from – has stolen my heart and I have largely you to blame. I’m convinced I have the most loyal, gracious readers. The affection I have received has deepened my attachment to this blog, and consequently slowed me down on the site I have dreamed the last several years. Few friends and bloggers have known of My Holistic Table. But I talked the perfectionist out of herself. Why not share it with readers now? The Table is a specialty food site for all, parents especially. Not because it recommends a certain diet but for the broad principles that apply to human beings. Not everyone cooks, but y’all eat. Be sure to open the pages How to Eat and The Wonder Years. If you know anyone else who has three meals a day, kindly pass it on. I’m sad to be unable to post as often as I’d like if I wish to stay on the Journey.
Oh, here I am when the to-do list overwhelms, the eve of my historic first camping getaway (auuugh)! Why I would abdicate the delicious comfort of my mattress for the intrusion of noise and light upon a canvas cot almost baffles me. Except I go for my guys. Hubby gets to hug his trees again and Son will make new memories with homeschool friends. Am hoping Word Inspiration from the Rustic will redeem the roughing it. Can I at least get a poem out of this? I have to pull the kale and gorgeous garnet beets with their tops from the oven into the dehydrator for their service to us this weekend.
My happy best,
under Mountain Sky
A thousand kisses
she receives, the
condensation of grace
Echoes of moonlight
the laps of lake
While the hopeful earth
athirst lies ravished
'til she revives.
Earnest drops pearl
upon the bosom
of Mother Lake
That swells, and vanish
in their rising, her
surrender back to