Whatever it may reveal,
a swirl of pink possibilities
or profound regrets,
something unwritten
stirs and begins today.
I am the gardener,
watching petals fall away,
nurturing fractured earth,
tilling tired soil, waiting
impatiently for unlikely
roots to travel and grow,
wondering when tomorrow’s
blooms will unfold.
I will be there, careful
to grip true stems and
avoid piercing thorns
certain to draw blood
and test my resolve.
Hello Yellow, how good of you
to make an appearance before
Santa and his reindeer land.
I’ve missed you and your
colorful red and orange cousins,
your crunchy-yet-sunny
disposition, your earthly scent
as you hang, glide and tumble
to be collected by the magical
metallic click and swoosh of
yesterday’s backyard garden
rake. Didn’t we once gather
with your friends in a pile or
several for one last heavenly
autumnal celebration before
carols and flurries cascaded and
winter’s drifts and desolation
froze us in our tracks?
Now I remember us together,
surviving in a simpler, more
defined, orderly civilization.
You don’t need to worry.
As long as I am here, you
and your seasonal friends
will remain alive, constant,
distinguishable, and everlasting
… at least in my imagination.
As we count our losses,
we brace for shadows
and ripples lurking
in the darkness.
The comfort of an
undeterred desert moon
shines stillness.
It conjures hope
and the ebb and flow
of constancy living
on their own cycles.
It rises with flickers
of unfulfilled promises
and etched memories
of loved ones gone
but never far away.
I’m everybody’s neighbor or nobody’s, but I never labor.
My lives are too short to stray too far or work too hard.
It’s way more interesting to watch, wait, and wonder.
Sure, it’s okay to honor hard work. But what about play?
Shouldn’t we devote more days, more space for that?
Shouldn’t we pause every day for at least an hour or so?
Cause when it’s all over, I know what will happen.
We’ll wish we worked less and played more.
I dream and gaze into a Sonoran sky,
where flames no longer lap at my tired tail,
and concrete runs smooth and cool,
and trusting birds fly slow and low,
and spirits rise high above tall trees,
and the constant chase has ended,
and the kitchen door is always open,
and I finally realize I’ve found home.
June is the start of triple-digit season in the Sonoran Desert.
When it reaches 110 degrees–as it has for the past several days–it really feels like you’ve stepped inside an oven alongside that batch of chocolate chip cookies you crave. Or maybe, you imagine, there is a blaze approaching just over the next butte.
Tom and I escaped the oven for a few days to visit friends in the mile-high altitude and pines of Prescott, Arizona.
Watching the acrobatics and listening to the distinctive calls of a wide array of birds–bluebirds, woodpeckers, finches, tanagers, nuthatches, hummingbirds, etc.–while sipping morning coffee with John and Carolyn on their front patio, was as rejuvenating as a day at the spa.
Now we are back home. There is a quiet, reflective component tied to the intense Sonoran heat. Early swims. Late walks. More time to read. Fewer people to navigate.
We’ll be here seven years next month. In the heat and stillness of that realization, we’ve carved out a good, artistic, and whole life among Arizona friends, buttes, and dazzling sunsets.
It’s a warm (hot) life I never imagined at 30, 40 or 50 years old–but still a pleasant surprise beyond the constant push and responsibility of my Midwestern bread-winning years.
What will happen, when our last
parade of Palo Verde petals
paint the blue sky yellow?
Beyond the frantic flight
of ever-fluttering pages,
who will pause to remember
what we did, what we saw,
what we knew, what we missed,
who we loved and carried forward,
who we–proud and bold–held,
before the blossoms fell?
May casts a quiet spell of desert sensibility.
Brief morning showers spawn feline revelry.
Lonely pomegranates hang ready to ripen.
Roses, hibiscus, and bougainvillea vie nearby.
Shiny lizards adorn loveseats and walkways.
Still waters wait for summer waves to come.
Late April’s breezy interlude and May’s certain pre-heating oven conspire to scare and sweep them from one escaping path to another. As they scatter and vanish into familiar cumulus clouds, space and silence walk with those who remain and remember.
***
To enjoy more of my poetry, buy A Path I Might Have Missed on Amazon.
9:10 a.m. yoga mantra:
“When in doubt,
exhale it out.”
Without our breath,
and our ability
to let go of the negativity
in the world,
we have nothing.
6:56 p.m. sunset capture:
“Inhale the magic,
exhale the tragic.”
Without our compass,
and our agility
to embrace the possibilities
on the horizon,
we have lost all hope.
To enjoy more of my poetry, buy A Path I Might Have Missed on Amazon.
