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Showing posts from 2017

"I want to be..."

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I want to be that junco on the powdering of snow beneath the pine. I want this cup of hot chocolate to last forever. When I opened the kitchen window a bunch of snowflakes blew in, and one got caught in a spider web. I want to believe in magic; I want to have faith that our plush tomte will keep us safe from harm. The blue-gray days of the season are closing in. I want the strength to slay a waking demon or two. Hope is found in the web of winter stars. Photo by Jay Sturner (From the book HEARTVINES )

Ruffed Grouse

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Not all leaves of orange or brown fall to earth in eternal sleep; a few rally and rise again to form the lovely grouse. Ruffed Grouse by Jimmy Tucker (From the book HEARTVINES )

Autumn Poem: Seasonally Home

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The Ca’erpiwah

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In the rising warmth of the morning, while playing in the yard, my son Garion found a green caterpillar on the patio table. I offered it my finger—which it grabbed trustingly—and the two of us watched it crawl across my hand as if trying to make sense of the new landscape. By now Garion was inside the curtain of the moment, trying to make sense, in his own way, of the odd squirt of life in my hand. All the while I told him what I knew of this "baby" insect, not so unlike himself—a small being on a singular quest for food and growth; a life destined to blossom into something amazing. Time was spent passing the critter between hands of father and son (and once to and from our noses, which is funny for grown-up and toddler alike). I was glad for the opportunity to teach my son something new about nature, and more so for the lesson it afforded in compassion—for we were gentle with the larva, and never addressed it as a lesser thing, or called it "gross" when it pooped o

Hermit Thrush

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Hermit Thrush— So old, so wise; so rooted in earth’s antiquity she’s already gone rust from bottom up. Hermit Thrush by Jason Newton (From the book HEARTVINES )

Bloom of Gray (unpublished poem)

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for Chloe Viner Collins Sometimes the day begins and ends in a bloom of gray: a static ceiling of clouds, our minds too paralyzed to imagine the sun. No colorful birds pass the window, none pierce the silence with music. We’re sunk then, you and I, like stones at the bottom of a sea. Melancholia dances about us, grabs us by the hair, grins in our faces. Tomorrow he may be gone. But then again, probably not.

"Daffodils..."

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Photo by Scott Cohrs (From the book HEARTVINES )

"Some memories are scars..."

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Some memories are scars, others are feathers for flight. Winter trees by Glenn Perricone Jr. (From the book HEARTVINES )