• clouds,  landscape,  Mary Oliver,  natural areas,  poems,  trees

    Among the Trees

    From a walk at the Arapaho Bend Nature Area

    when I am among the trees,
    especially the willows and the honey locust,
    equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
    they give off such hints of gladness.
    I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

    I am so distant from the hope of myself,
    in which I have goodness, and discernment,
    and never hurry through the world
    but walk slowly, and bow often.

    Around me the trees stir in their leaves
    and call out, “Stay awhile.”
    The light flows from their branches.

    And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
    “and you too have come
    into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
    with light, and to shine.”

    Mary Oliver, When I Am Among the Trees
  • landscape,  poetic journal,  snow,  trees,  winter scenes,  writing/reading

    Yesterday’s storm has passed

    Snow clinging to branches

    Blue skies and sunshine bring their warmth this morning.
    I see tree branches bending over under the snow’s burden
    I watch as the sun’s warmth weaken the snow’s grip, 
    causing small glistening snowstorms to flutter downward.

    I check on the nesting geese, standing on my toes to look in
    They stretch their necks to check on my presence. All’s well.
    Looking up, the sky seems bluer, no contrails, less pollution.
    I listen to the quiet, the music that soothes this soul.

    I’m filled with gratitude for this wonderful world
    and the gift of being present, a part of all this beauty.

    Yesterday’s storm has passed

  • leaves,  Plants,  poems

    A Quilt for the Ground

    Patterns
    Patterns

    The leaves had a wonderful frolic.
    They danced to the wind’s loud song.
    They whirled, and they floated, and scampered.
    They circled and flew along.

    The moon saw the little leaves dancing.
    Each looked like a small brown bird.
    The man in the moon smiled and listened.
    And this is the song he heard.

    The North Wind is calling, is calling,
    And we must whirl round and round,
    And then, when our dancing is ended,
    We’ll make a warm quilt for the ground.

    Anonymous