On Nature

How is that a tree can stir my soul, so?
Yet, set amongst the Douglas firs –
an orchestra of giants, the reassurance
of green towering and proud – the music
of my soul is nothing less than symphonic.

How is that the sky can speak to me?
No words to convey its vastness, yet
it breathes new life into empty spaces,
whispers promises, ignite a hope
synonymous only with its expanse.

How is it that a body of water -be it
serene, flowing, or turbulent, can tug
at the corners of my emotional well,
create a longing for the unknowable,
toss me from my bed of complacency?

And how does a single flower, growing
wild, crack this shell of indifference –
the determination to blossom despite
harshness of surroundings – instil such
inspiration, motivate me to rejoice?

(On Nature first appeared here, April of 2018, written during our month long stay on Vancouver Island. Submitted here for Eugi’s Weekly prompt: nature. Image my own.

Vancouver Island

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.)

Moss

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.)

Blurring Blogging Lines

“Morrell Nature Sanctuary” is a poem I wrote for the Story Circle Network’s poetry writing group.  It is also my post today for my other blog (non-poetry, mostly non-fiction), One Woman’s Quest II.

If interested, check it out.

Just curious:  Did you even know I had a second blog?

Have a good day!

Vancouver Island

Is it the robins, whose morning song, so sharp and crisp awakens me in this enchanted place or the warble of Juncos, whose hooded black faces delight me as they forage between the dried, curled aftermath of a cold winter, now pushed aside by new life sprouting.  The absence of rain drops on tin roof offer 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 this 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 cougars. 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 of this land, their large black wings casting shadows, their thrumming call, sometimes belligerent, sometimes like a purr, a reminder that this is their land, that the totem poles that dot the island are a testament to their place, their royalty. Offshore, seals roam in masses encouraged by the schools of trout and halibut, and soon the salmon runs.  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.

(Day 12 of NaPoWriMo invites us to write a haibun.)

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