soft as cotton

Insects large and small flit

through the  lemony filter of dense canopies.

In hushed whispers we point to a clearing

where a roe fawn nibbles at pine needles.

Clouds  soft as cotton brush the crowns of ancient trees

below  a  hanging mist clings to  blonde foothills.

You pluck a  marigold to tuck behind my ear

your  golden hand print left on my thigh.

I wind a garland of leaves around your wrist

close enough to run my fingers through your hair

carry your scent back home with me.

 

 

Deborah Gryka  “Turtle Woods”

 

 

 

the life cycle of a rose

On a thorny stalk

wrapped in leafy veins

heavy with the burden

of viscous dew

for the love of light her

corolla lifts upright

a broad faced still life

anchored to the earth

she tracks the sun across

an unpredictable sky

At dusk she combs the air

with sweetness retreating

at twilight into

pearly pools of the moon.

 

RosePink5

photography by heart

forest song

Out here
I can hear the chatter of anxious birds. The wind and rain have shredded their nests. A sudden flight of wings fill wispy petals of clouds passing over.
Wandering further beneath the tall pines I hear their creaking branches stretch like old bones. Needing to be heard, the brittle crunch of leaves beneath my feet make their sound.
A White tail deer watches warily from a grassy knoll, his majestic antlers in silhouette against the splintered rays of sunset. My breath is but a whisper in this sacred place that offers everything and asks for nothing.

fantasy-forest.jpg

art by Lazada Philipine

The Monarch

From my swing

I spot the Monarch

sipping from a nectary,

gently I snare him

by his dew drenched wings.

I wonder if he knows

his fate lies in my hands.

Clutched between my fingers

imagine how his heart pounds.

National Geographic

because I love you

I know I love you

because when I think

of you my heart feels full,

a pool choked with water hyacinth,

Thirsty roots reaching deep

into beds of  longing

overflowing walls of  need

where I am so afraid to fall .

Because I love you I forfeit my privilege

drown in you  as though you 
are liquid.

 

 

Vincent Van Gogh

I know it’s too late

to prune but wilted petals

wave provocatively from

dried shrubs here among the

famished flowers and the fading sun is

pleasing on my bare back.

Sticky tongues of desiccated lizards

flick the spidery veins of elongated

roots plucked without mercy from the

pungent earth.

Dew drops glisten on scars and nicked

fingers bleed from circumcised petals

sheathed in thorns.

I know it it is too early but the languishing

garden screams out for structure,

the need to be in control again.

jostle,1056579[1]

Art by Jill Martin

Turning

Feel the  changing seasons,

the tilt of the  Earth’s axis,

the days growing longer as

the night  desires to linger.

Summer seemed boundless,

the sundial casts long shadows.

I will miss  you with your

brand of ripeness,

August’s   lustrous brightness

inciting the senses with fields

afire beneath a summer sky.

Now its wheat is  stacked and

bound  in lonely batches.

Buried beneath autumn leaves

the earth  imbues the darker hues

starless skies of delft blue and

gray swathes  that cloak the dawn.

The ash of burning  locust wood

shrouds the wilting garden with

the musky scent of autumn ghosts

heralding the chill.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sentry

A young birch sways

like a newborn giraffe

its limbs lean out over

wilted grass and ochre

vines wind a marble sentry

whose eyes never flinch

but guard eternal  while

winter snow stacks on

solitary bones until May

winds stir the crowns of

trees filled with the wails of

wingless birds powerless

to fly on.

 

 

powerless birds.png

 

anemone

In the moonlight a shimmer

of anemone flowers wash ashore

settling among pearls of sand.

Gossamer  beams spill down

where there is no need for words below

a sky  of  muted stars  driven to be near

us.

We are the sigh of winds

Echoing  over high cliffs cascading from from  murky walls of caves and back again

Tethered to nothing we are

free of burden,  golden sand enticing the

current through ancient reefs,

released forever back to the sea.

 

Coral Reef  from Google

 

Tide Pool

In the hour before dawn when the stars still hold on to the velvet sky,  stealthy specters rise, pull on  layers of clothing and slip silently into the low lying fog.   Father let the car roll  down the driveway  signalling me with a fingertip to his lips to  make not  a sound for fear we would wake the sleeping who might want to intrude on our secret adventure just for two.   The engine purring like a cat hummed   down the deserted highway to a slab of pavement leading to the bay.  From there the  scent of  Gumbo Limbo and salty mangrove drifted through our  open windows.   Parking between two  boulders we walked to the craggy shore. The horizon glowed in lush amber,  waves so  far away,   tidal sand came alive with trifles of tiny seas where a  bug eyed Hermit Crab hurriedly dug his hiding hole.  Provocative anemones waved their fuchsia fingers at lilac colored algae where a Starfish tiny as a tear waited patiently for a finger to regrow.   The squawk of   Sea gulls invoked by the rising sun  signaled us to move along.  In the full light of day we sat silently on the sea wall, the sound of crashing waves pounding in our ears.
sea anemones
Photo by Brocken Inaglory