Time's Gift

Our Dad.
A kind and gentle soul.
He was a father
and so much more.
A patient man
who always saw the best in everyone
and everything.
He was a steady guide through stormy seas;
both pilot
and steering star.
Dad was the one who would keep his head
when those about were losing theirs.
When we were little
he would dance with us balanced on his toes.
He would blow perfect smoke rings
as he pulled on his pipe,
and sit in comfortable, reflective silence.
Dad was an eager teacher
and a humble poet
with the inner strength of a tall pine.
He could explain the world in simple terms;
from the tiny veins in a fallen leaf,
to the inner workings of an outboard motor.
He was a quiet man who
when he spoke
we paused to listen
and we heard.
He was the loving substance that bound us.
And that beautiful Love endures.

Morning's Breath

Stealthy
as white night
with fingers twined about slender trunks,
lingering over frosted blades.
Caressing.
Poised.
Its embrace
ethereal.
Cloaking rock, stone and earth
as it hangs,
cleaving in vain
before the advancing bright.

Perspective

How small we seem
When from the outside seen.
How large we be
When from within we see.
Just a pinprick in time
When we gauge the line.
But expansive we are
When we look afar.
In this we may confide
For it is ours to decide.

Reflecting

I had a dream
That when I looked into a mirror
Past my shoulder
The impossible was possible

raptors

the osprey
the eagle
wingbeat for wingbeat
a flawless choreography
swoop for swoop
wheel and dive
the fish
tumbles
free
from the grasp of the osprey
the eagle
like a rock
plummets
to rise again
triumphant
clutching its plunder

Secrets of the Garden

Being in touch with the earth.
The literal sense will also take us to where we need to be figuratively. My fingernails currently bear signs of the moist, black soil in which they were immersed - and where they will return. I cannot imagine living high above the ground, within blocks of stacked, drywalled capsules, where I cannot stretch my toes and touch the grass from my stoop. However, the large attached deck that soars above the ground, is my refuge during the warm summer months and upon it I tend my garden, a riot of cascading colour, that thrives in clay pots and planters. From this vantage, I may cast my eye over the valley and accept the peace it offers up. The purpose of this garden, jutting out from the hillside as it is, is as practical as it is aesthetic, for the local ungulate population has a voracious appetite - petunias, begonias and pansies; apparent delicacies. The lawn, on the other hand, slopes from the gravelled road in front, in undulating rolls and rocky steps, back and downward to merge into pine and poplar forest, eventually sliding beneath the water's silky edge. The fire pit, noted as the social gathering area, has been relegated to a relatively flat portion of tended grass at the north end of the house - a cool, breezy spot, shaded by a large willow and protected by lilac bushes and towering fir trees. It affords a different perspective across the lake. The irises that flourish beneath the shadow of the trees at the edge of the property are left in peace by the deer - I like to think it is the result of an innate reverence for their beauty.
My garden. A labour of love, wherefore the rewards I reap are tenfold.

Relative

You
are you.
I
am me.
Together
we are us.