Was moonstone,
the year I travelled
Crossed the ocean
landed in a shared
caravan in Wales
Tongue tripping
over place names
thought echoing
over green, mountainous
expanses – heart mending
with each panoramic
view of Lake Bala.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own.)
Rain-infused greens
inspire whimsical thoughts –
surely there are sprites
frolicking amongst the mossy boughs,
sheltering beneath ancient roots
whose twisted tendrils rise and dip
in rhythm to Earth’s pulses.
The muddied path pushes back
against my weary legs, invites me
to sit awhile, wonder at the impossible
heights from which birdsong flits across
treetops, pinging back from unseen
distances, unhindered by human progress.
Salmonberries, newly popped,
herald the seasonal shift,
and I watch as a slug undulates
slowly past, antennae bobbing,
the black spots of its tail reptilian.
Below me, lantern-like blooms
of yellow sprout at creek’s edge
their pungent aroma carried by
the still chilled vernal breeze.
A red-breasted nuthatch scurries
up a neighbouring fir, while two robins
flirt playfully on the rainforest floor,
hopping amongst the freshly flowered
trilliums, their white crowns a regal
presence in this place of enchantment.
(Image my own)
Morrell Nature Sanctuary first appeared on One Woman’s Quest II in April, 2018. Morrell Nature Sanctuary is on Vancouver Island, Canada.
She flows
unapologetic of her girth,
does not flinch
at barges scoring her surface
nor paddle boats laden with curiosity.
Confident in her fluidity,
she bears the secrets of life –
the sludge of humanity in her belly –
stirs the minds of merchants, and children,
tolerates those who gather at her banks.
The final word is hers – she knows –
no boundaries can contain her wrath
still waters rise and spill;
she is a dragon
Nature’s force,
and she is magnificent.
(‘Mississippi’ first appeared here in November, 2017.
Image my own. Not the Mississippi.)
Is it the robin whose morning song so sharp and crisp awakens me in this enchanted place, or the warble of Juncos whose hooded faces delight as they forage between the dried, curled aftermath of a cold Winter, now pushed aside by new life sprouting? The absence of raindrops on tin roof offers promise that the sun might appear today, the buds on the oak trees as anxious as I for the warmth.
I raise the window shades to reveal the lush green of Douglas firs, the walls that divide us from our neighbours: nomads like us in the quest to commune with a simpler way of life. We are metal boxes tucked within green pockets, quiet souls hushed by the grandeur of the forest we currently call home, reticent to disturb the wildlife that also grazes here – squirrel, fox, and rumours of cougar. Occasionally bear. We are skirted on one side by marsh, a lush welcoming for geese and goldeneyes; and on the other by ocean, where seagulls and terns claim driftwood as perches. It is the raven who is master here. Large wings casting shadows, the thrumming call – sometimes belligerent, sometimes a purr – a reminder that this land is theirs, that the totem poles dotting the island are a testament to royalty.
Offshore, seals roam in masses encouraged by the schools of trout and halibut, and soon the salmon run. Orcas gather in semi-circular formation, readying the hunt. Spring is a time of proliferation – abundance after the Winter chill.
Arise, old woman
Nature evokes new rhythm –
Spirit wants to dance.
(Vancouver Island first appeared here April, 2018. It is an early attempt at a haibun. I am linking up to my weekly challenge: trees. Image my own.)
Travel is the ask,
so many questions – answers
just fragments of truth.
(Seeker first appeared here January of 2109. I resubmit it here for Reena’s Exploration Challenge #143: featured image.)
Take me to the desert
with mountains at our side;
walk with me in shadows
let nature be our guide.
We’ll stroll amongst the cacti
pay homage to the quails;
take me to the desert,
help me gather tales.
The seasons are passing,
we’re running out of time;
take me to the desert;
heal this heart of mine.
(Desert first appeared here in November 2018. As Winter blows in around us, I think longingly of our time spent in warmer climates. Image from personal collection.)
Remember that Autumn,
we drove up to Campbell River,
like teenagers, skipping out of class –
a cackle of women, spiritually forming?
Felt as if we had bided our time, willing
this union to occur – high on anticipation,
giddy that our routine femininity had
been strewn across the barricades
of our socially contrived existence.
We were like lesbian lovers, unafraid
to explore our crevices, our souls
hungering for release…
We were researchers, reinventing masks
adopted in formative years, stretching
our capacity to believe…
awakened by the crones amongst us,
sisters united, standing in the the flood
of our collective herstory, shedding
the padding of our religious upbringing,
teetering on the brink of a lost divinity.
Weavers, once paralyzed by the guck
of patriarchal dictates, fear of ascension
retreating, we broke free, immersed in
Goddess splendour, felt the ecstasy
of true abandonment, were wild women
unrestrained, catalysts for change.
How is it that the passion faded so abruptly –
that motherhood and responsibility, and
the rigours of competing in daily life stripped
away the afterglow, smacked me back into
this rigid self-definition, prayerful, thankful,
yet lacking the empowerment of the island?
Have I stored her somewhere; is there even
a space within me capable of housing such
expansiveness, open to wading once again
in the waters of a lunar deity, wiling to sacrifice
superficiality for the compassionate mystery
of the Black Madonna haunting my memory?
( Black Madonna first appeared here in November of 2016. I resubmit her (edited) Art mine)
Winds picked up yesterday, gathering grey. Cold seeped in through the windowsills, and we set the furnace on high. Forecast for today is just above zero, even though we are in a tropical zone. Oh well, I decide, a nice spicy soup will warm our innards.
Seems my body mirrors the weather: health declining, forcing me to bedrest frequently. Have slept most the morning. In between, I check emails, the blog, and we speculate about what will happen next with Mother Nature. Soon, it will be time to venture home – a both welcome and sorrowful thought.
Confused winds blow cold,
winter reversing itself –
piquant soup simmers.
(It’s haibun night at the dVerse pub, hosted by Merril who challenges us to write about March Madness. I am also linking up to Ragtag Community’s prompt: speculate and Fandango’s: health.)
Avoidance, we
do it well – displace our
selves to warmer climes
choose a locale by the sea
anoint sunshine as our power,
and when the Ides of March arrive
our restlessness stirs once more
heat turns up and
we escape – renewed drive
leads to home’s door.
(Dark Side of the Moon offers a weekly cinquain challenge. This week is the Insane Cinquain – check link to learn more. Image from personal collection.)
Travel is the ask,
so many questions – answers
just fragments of truth.
(Written for Ronovan Writes Haiku Challenge: answer / question.)
One Woman's Quest 