The Deciduous Tree

The deciduous tree 
does not appear 
as it once stood
just one month ago.
Its outstretched arms are glowing
against the backdrop 
of the deep blue sky.
Splotchy green
with yellow or browned edges.

Yet the mighty maple
is just the sum of its 
many tiny parts.
The branch reaches toward the sky
on its solid trunk.
A resting place for tiny buds
that blossomed and burst
into a big bold green.
Seeds descended and dispersed.
And now we get to see 
the leaves’ true colors.

The deciduous tree
does not get to choose when
it’s time to blossom or seed.
It is synched to the 
rhythm of nature
beyond our concept 
of time.

The seasons connect me
and ground me
in a world that always
seems to be spinning faster
and faster,
Almost off-kilter
Off balance.

As the cycle of the season begins
I’m suddenly reminded 
of the color,
the beauty,
the cycles of nature
that surround me.
Always there.
A constant reminder that
I, too, am a child of nature
and connected to
the timeless rhythms 
that surround me.



The autumn sky grows darker each passing night.
The sun takes her time
enjoying a late slumber.
She knows when it’s time to rest
and time to play.

Candles warm the senses 
like a warm mug of herbal tea.
Artificial light could never equal
its warm amber glow.

I marvel at the flame,
how it flicks on the wick.
A quiet solitary dance
atop my candle.

And when I blow out the flame,
I make a small wish:
To live another day.
To appreciate the day’s gifts.
To remember my intention
And breathe in the lessons.

There’s a small trail of smoke
that lingers above a red 
yet fading wick.
Remnants of what was once there.

The wax erodes in tandem
with the passing of time.
And I am aglow inside and out.

Five ways of looking at the breath

Deep, slow rhythmic pace
It grounds me.
It takes me out of my thinking mind
and I embody the present moment
and smile.

A sense of control
I can hold my breath.
I can lengthen my exhales
more than my inhales.
I can whistle.
I can sigh.
I can sing
and even make myself yawn.

Tight and constrictive
In those moments of anxiety or hurt,
my breath is shallow and tight
like a sharp pain in my chest.
When I try to take a deep breath,
I feel my chest constrict and tighten
like a sob about to break free.

All living beings on this planet breathe
be it with lungs or gills.
We all enter this world and
take our first breath.
We laugh and cry together.
We can chant OM.
We can sing a melodic tune.

Conduit to peace
When I remember that
I can control my breath,
I create the optimal route to peace
with just one breath.
I could argue with my words
or ruminate an imagined reply in my mind.
Or I can breathe and let it be.


Let the past be the past

The past is the past 
thankfully and sorrowfully so.
We have today's gifts and connections,
conversations and hearts to grow.

Let go of yesterday's hurts.
They cannot touch you here.
No matter their lull, their yearning,
their harsh or loving memory.

Let's make new ones today
so that our wells may overflow
with a life well-loved and well-lived.

Let the past be the past.
It cannot touch me here in the now.
I know this, yet sometimes need a reminder
While ruminating and caught in a memory.

To snap back to reality.
To be nostalgic is okay.
Let's make today a great day.

Despite the rain, the sun still rises

Despite the rain, the sun still rises.
It was my birthday
6:30 in the morning
and as dark as night.
The pattering of rain
against my window
began during my slumber.

I looked up at the sky
and knew that despite the rain,
the sun will still rise
and that warmed my heart.

My special day wouldn't be
ruined from the dark
from the large puddles
that collected in my driveway.

In the quiet of morning,
I saw mourning doves perched
on the electric wire.
Nowhere to go.
Nowhere to shelter.
Just one with the rain
with the elements 
and they were all okay
despite the rain.

The sun still rises
Even if I can't be
greeted by its warm red
and orange rays.
As the day progressed, 
the dark sky did brighten
to a white marble gray sky.
The sun was still there
If I just remembered.

Despite the rain
I went out to celebrate
with my husband.
at our favorite place for breakfast
and each bite was a true delight.
I marveled at where we were
in this place and time.
How I got here on this special day.
The wisdom, the experience, the love,
the awe, the pain, the lessons
And I, too, was okay
Despite the rain.


When I discover my true self revealed 
naked without a mask 
without culturally accepted clothing that clings to my curves 
extenuates my breasts and exposes my arms or legs, 
I am free from what binds me.

Although society will try to make me feel foolish 
embarrassed to even look upon my naked body in the mirror. 
The glass is never a true reflection but a juxtaposition. 
Whoever sees their true reflection except those reflected back in the eyes of another?

My lover’s desire 
My culture’s shame
How do I let it go 
to accept me as he does naked and true to himself?

Why do I have all these layers to shed before my true self has seen the light of day? 
Do I even recognize her? 
What’s in my mind’s eye and reflected back to me in the mirror are two very different things. 
Can I love the ideal me and the real me? 
Can I drop the story to be a certain image at all times regardless of what stage of life I happen to be in?

The man does not let outside influences interrupt his burning desire to meld into one. 
His lust and eyes tell me I’m something more than I see. 
Do I exist as he sees me naked and swaying to incite his excitement? 
Is that the true me? 
Or is it the one who breathes deep sighs 
as the clean sheets spread out neatly tucked around 
my body and mind relaxes and succumbs to the much-needed rest?

To recharge and feel comfort in one’s bed without interruption or distraction. 
To feel my bones and breath 
no one to interpret or criticize. 
It is mine and only mine to claim. 
In beauty, in rest, in wholeness fully alive. 
I can be here for just a moment.

A night under the moon. 
She and I are one and dancing with the stars 
not ashamed of who we are but embodying our true nature. 
When the black birds take flight in that early twilight, 
their beating wings do not make a mark across the darkened sky. 
Their beating hearts in unison as they soar across the moon 
only then illuminated before being swallowed back into the darkness.

The thread

This one precious life. 
How fragile it is.
Strung by a thread
into the vastness of eternity.
The oneness of all beings
on their own threaded life.

Who created the thread?
Who laid out the journey before I
came to be?
The vastness of potential
of choices made to make me
Who I am today
Whole, full of light and feeling grateful.

This thread we weave
and walk upon.
It has been tested with unavoidable change,
growth and setbacks
and lessons learned.
My one precious life.

I do not know what lies ahead.

At times, I feel this journey is mine alone
And even though with a future unknown,
I can be supported and held as I travel on
and begin another lap around the sun.


My inner songbird

My inner songbird sings
that which she cannot bring
to light from the dark
and all that can be marked.

To be alive and free
expressing all of the emotions in me.
I do not know what I'll say
until the moment in the day

When the creative muse appears at the fore
remembering her inspiring visits from before
I long to express what's inside
and to be safe in my stride.

I want to feel ease and peace
the joy and magic of release
Those words that are meant to be said
once I get them out of my head.

The Window

To the untrained eye, a window
is merely an opening to the outside.
To the imaginative and creative,
the window can be a portal.
A conduit to worlds unseen
with the naked eye.

The worlds of dream state
of fantasy or memory.
Perhaps we rehash a situation
over and over.
Turning the events like the waves
in the ocean.

Do we embody the memory?
Can we change the circumstance
and outcome to what we wish
could’ve been
instead of what was?

Do we live lives not of the
mundane reality we may think we
find ourselves in
But to be a world traveler.
To explore caves, dunes,
other cultures’ food and language
without leaving the room we are in?

The window is an invitation
to look outside ourselves.
A reminder that our lives are
not contained in this body,
in this space.
But an opening to be more.
Become more, see more, love more.

The window provides a view into
the heart, the mind,
the shared world we all inhabit.
Our lives are not as small
as we might’ve thought.
It’s just not the full story
of the human experience.

The window may be bright with light
or dark with shadow and dim.
The window can be open
like our hearts
Or closed when we need solitude
and healing.

It is okay to be open or closed.
And to marvel at the beauty
inside and out.

Open the window to love

When I open the window to love,
I let in more than just
fresh air or a better view.
There is love in the air.

A love of autumn
Bright, true colors shine through
Surrounded by the abundance of harvest.
Juicy apples and round pumpkins
to delight with flavor and

The aromas, the sights, the sounds
of squirrels skittering and kicking
up brush, a treasure in its mouth.
It is survival instinct
to save for a cold winter's day.

I take a mental note and
decide to write what I'm grateful for
to reread for myself on a hard, cold day.

The harvest full moon rose last night
and I watched it take its usual
path across the night's sky.
In my mind's eye, 
I am looking at its face
as it kisses me across the cheek.

Such wisdom and stories it holds.