Earth’s Meditation

yellow dry maple

Photo: Kadri Vosumae on Pexels.com

 

“Do you know?” she asked,

Ankles deep in gold leaves.

“Do you know what the earth

meditates upon in autumn?”

“Ask the acorns,” he said.

“Query the roots of the trees.”

“Would they not,” she returned,

“Tell only their thoughts?

Would they hear the earth’s song

Over that of their seed?”

“Ask the squirrels, then,” he sighed

Rake in hand, a wind urging

His work to proceed.

“Or the sky, or the clouds

Or your own heart

Beneath that old tweed.

Ask the earth

As it speaks to the autumn,

While the soles of your feet

Fill these bags

Top to bottom.”

 

 

For dVerse Tuesday Poetic: the question as poetry

 

 

The Birth Of Day

sunrise florida

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

May the birth of day

Delight you

In the promise

That it brings,

Even with the clear

Potential

For the pulling of

Heart’s strings.

May you know

The hope of

Morning

As it touches

First light’s bliss.

May the good

Outweigh the painful

As tender dawn

To ocean

Kiss.

 

 

For the Sunday Stills challenge: Birthdays

 

Take The Trail

sun shade path PhilipCoons

Photo: Philip Coons

 

Take the trail

Up the path

To where spring

Flows through minds,

And where fairies

Inspect

Those whose feet

Trail behind.

Listen on

To the leaves

Speaking tales

To the trees,

And to elves’

Rustling limbs

As they flit

In the breeze.

 

 

Dedicated with love to Dee, whose trail now flows wholly through realms beyond this physical one.

For the Tuesday Photo Challenge: Trail

 

 

 

Endless Harmony

a solitary figure on a beach against a wide ocean.

Photo: Sue Vincent

 

She’d never have believed the vastness had she not been there to see it.

In person.

On the edge of endlessness.

The breath of eons crashing at her feet.

The spray of ancient rhythms that had been there

All along.

Through war and storm and hope and flood and cold and warm and days like this when no one but herself was there to witness it.

She’d never have believed the power that it held, contained within each curl of wave, in every roll of whitecap licking sand.

It filled her.

With awe and ache and gnawing yearning to something that went beyond her words and into thoughts unformed, or perhaps ones made of memories in utero: the hiss, the beat, the drums of hearts.

And this.

Another memory

To merge into

In endless harmony.

 

 

 

For Sue Vincent’s WritePhoto (2nd week)