Doors open, wind whispers
Cottonball clouds drift in pale blue
Reflections on early autumn afternoons
beauty
Beauty is Whatever Gives Joy
When negative sights overwhelm, look at the flowers–sharing this beauty from a blogging friend.
Summer Day
j
sunrise over canyon wall
shimmering heat of a summer day
sun sinking behind cedars
The Gift
On the wall for forty years,
a copy of some famous painting.
Almost everything a strange dark
shade of blue, a blue not quite
blue, the merest hint of green:
antique cupboard, curved table
base, ladder back chair, window
frame, even the tree outside.
The only exceptions:
white table cloth,
newspaper in the lady’s hands,
her pale pink floral dress with tiny
darker pink flowers,
large copper antique teapot
in the cupboard, the black and copper
pots on top. Her teacup, saucer, plate
of toast, white and blue, an old Danish pattern.
I’ve kept this gift,
hung on too many walls to count.
My college roommate, the giver, said,
“This reminds me of you.”
I look at it; all these years
have wondered why.
We’re still friends.
I’ve never asked.
Canyon in Winter
Winter stillness lies over the canyon:
a blanket of white cold.
Windless, a rarity in West Texas.
Three colors:
green juniper
adobe rocks
crystalline snow.
Suddenly,
I see reddish brown rock,
cat shaped,
large,
outlined against the snow.
I wait,
I watch.
It moves,
dashes up an arroyo,
disappears.
Bobcat?
Puma?
The Encounter Poems
Throughout my life, I seem to experience what I call encounters: meeting people I never saw before and having some type of connection with them. Various things occur under these circumstances. Sometimes I keep in contact for at least a while with these people and sometimes not. This week I am going to post several of these poems. Here is the first one.
In Line at a Fast Food Restaurant
Caramel eyes
glowing in a brown face
Panama hat
Intricately carved silver cross
Crisp, snowy linen shirt
No collar
Slacks loose.
He’s lost weight.
I think,
“Gorgeous brown man.”
He says,
“In case no one has told you lately,
you’re gorgeous!”
He walks off to meet
the pregnant woman in the corner.
Women-2
Why
and
What
draws me
to witches
herbal secrets
moonlight
ancient ruins
archaic codes.
It is the goddess blood I carry,
remembrance of a past
when women ruled
when peace reigned
and
All were healed.
Horses in Heaven
Heaven for horses seems a bit far fetched, especially for someone who lacks certainty about heaven even for people. Nevertheless, it remains a comforting concept. Yesterday, I buried Starry Miracle, less than two, an orphan I bottle fed every 3-4 hours day and night when his mother, Miracle, died. He not only survived, he thrived.
Around 4:30 Wednesday, friends went to my place to ride Rosie, a chunky, red roan mare. They found Star dead. It appeared he had been playing, jumping, and rearing, and freakily caught his ankle in a space between the pipe gate and fence, broke it and ruptured his femoral artery, then bled to death. When they called to tell me, disbelief set in. As a horse owner for many years, I know the common causes of horse deaths, colic mainly, from which Miracle died three days after his birth. I have inspected fences and corrals for safety many times. The possibility of such an accident never even entered my mind.
His body stiff, distorted, his coat, lusterless, bore no resemblance to his burnished copper body, glinting in the sun, following me, nipping if I ignored him. Often, I thought he thought I was a horse or he a human.
The two surviving horses spent hours standing in the spot where he died, licking the pipe fence from which I had hosed off his blood, smelling the ground, neighing. They even failed to rush to their hay when I fed them. Eventually, I opened their gates. They ran across the rugged canyon land constantly for fifteen minutes, dream horses running in the wind.
Miracle, Star’s mother, deceased, July 2010. Rosie who “adopted” Star after Miracle died, and Cool, the other orphaned horse I raised.
Writing on the Rim
The canyon edge looms out my bedroom windows,
pale adobe, stark.
Fall to death or serious injury!
I will not fall; I love living on the edge.
Rain brings a one hundred foot deluge,
a roar of water, cascading, screaming.
Someone said my house is pink; it is not pink!
It is the color of the canyon, the worldwide color,
Moroccan, pueblo, Saudi, Mali, Navaho, Timbuktu,
Desert, alive and lovely.
Three bucks watch me through my bedroom windows.
They see me move; they stare.
Isabella stands rigid, watching.
I kneel to her level; follow her eyes.
The bobcat casually climbs the canyon wall, impervious.
He marks the cedar tree, walks a deer path, disappears.
He is a secret, rarely seen.
The huge hoot owl’s voice echoes down the canyon,
drifting through my dreams.
A young road runner calls, scratchy,
running across the patio–on the edge.
In the spring the mocking bird sings all night,
“This is my territory.”
I sing all year, full of joy.
I live in beauty on the rim.
I decided to reblog this because it is the season for giving thanks, and I am eternally grateful for the privilege of living in such a beautiful place. Yesterday, my family and I took a hike here, saw deer, lovely colorful rocks, bunnies, and native plants the names of which I do not know. I live in beauty on the rim of wonder!! I feel blessed!!
