Mother
to a child – barely
able to tie shoes
watching,
listening,
ever-present
through fields,
trees, at
water’s edge
provided shelter,
grounding –
whispered cautions
child grew,
left her side –
pursued dreams
until life
overwhelming –
an adult returns
“Mother?” she cries.
“Here,” Earth responds.
(It’s quadrille night at dVerse, and Kim is hosting with the prompt earth.)
Clouds cluster, warn of coming storms.  Having been shut in for days, I am anxious to get outside. Trusty camera carefully secured around my neck, hands firm on walker’s grip, I begin my slow stroll through the neighbourhood.  A gust of wind disrupts the flight of a bumblebee, and we collide: he striking my cheek. I step back, startled. No damage done.
I follow a walkway, built between the houses, leading to our community center. This route takes me past rows of flourishing gardens – a feast of vibrancy. I slow to watch the bees delightedly dancing from bloom to bloom. At the edge of my friend’s house, I hear the crickets, loud and raucous, as if they know that she is currently away. I pause to listen, surprised to hear such unabashed chirping mid-day.
Lingering, I hope to catch a glimpse of one, maybe even a photograph, but the creatures are securely tucked in the shadows of the overgrown foliage, oblivious to my presence.  I capture the flight of a bee, and the elegant profile of a mourning dove, and then turn back. A white winged moth brushes my hand in passing and then stops long enough for me to take a picture. The crickets keep on singing.
Midday crickets sing –
revel in nature’s bounty,
as storm clouds gather.
(Written for dVerse, hosted tonight by Victoria.)
The past clings,
like moss, nurtured
by tears unshed,
like sap untapped,
warps minds,
sense of self,
craves perceptional
shift –
a vernal appreciation
for the grandeur
of our contours,
brilliance of wisdom
garnered through strife –
the undeniable elegance
of lush green moss.
(Photo from personal collection: rainforest on Vancouver Island.)
Daylight softens
and my lens twitches
to follow the birds
into the brush
to a pond
where green water
ripples, exposes
the presence
of beaver,
slicing through algae.
I click. Â Success!
Later revel
in images,
red welts
raising on arms,
legs afire with itch.
(dVerse is back and celebrating 7 years with a quadrille, focus: itch)
How delicate
these threads
that bind us –
frail filaments,
whispery darts
of affection –
How willfully
we ignore connection,
ignore ensuing pain…
individuality usurping
love’s needs –
a harsh lesson.
(Inspired by the featured image and written for the daily prompts:
Fandango: lesson; Ragtag Community: dart; Daily Addictions: frail.)
(Submitted to Fandango’s Daily prompt: mirror)
(Inspired by Steve Still Standing‘s  “An Exercise in Poetic Styles”)
Even the river bleeds –
fiery frigid essence –
earth’s watery voice.
***
It is the river
that calls, waters flowing
through my veins
and I am the banks
steadfast in my holding
the razor sharp edges
like liquid steel
eroding my earthen
postures, challenging
the hardened places.
To stroll amongst giants –
straight-backed arrows
whose green bows aim skyward –
a directional pull so uplifting
that earthly matters diminish –
this is contentment.
A shrill note
pierces night’s curtain –
an insistent, pestering alarm
Is it loneliness
that motivates the caller –
the need for a warm body
to calm her feathered fears
or a throaty hum to lull her?
Or is this an infant cry,
a hunger for nourishment
anxious in separation
waiting for mother’s
regurgitated assurances,
father’s watchful stance.
An onerous honk
breaks through
the high-pitched peep
and then, as
warmth wanes
a softer, sweeter
melody presents
followed by
a laughing trill
avian pleasure
prefacing night’s slumber.
One Woman's Quest 