Through the tall window
I watch clouds wandering by
Majestic and free
Writing
Flocks of Birds
Sunrise. No, sunset.
Hours pass like flocks of birds
Frightened by loud noise.
Morning Sun
Alone, I am tranquil
Beneath oak trees illuminated
With morning light
Deer step carefully across my path
Seeking tender blades of grass
Brought up by the storms
Birds chirp from high branches
Out of sight, out of reach
Free to sing their own song
Here I rest on this wooden bench
Unfettered for a short time
Free to write my own story
Ballerina Scientist
Phoebe spotted a mossy branch the other day and pointed it out.
“Yeah,” I said, “You can take that home and examine it with your magnifying glass.”
“What does ‘examine’ mean?” she asked.
“To look closely and make observations. You know what observations are,” I replied. “You’re learning a lot of scientific terms.”
“That’s because I am a scientist,” she asserted. “I’m a ballerina scientist. Do you know what ballerina scientists do?”
“No, what do they do?”
“They dance all around through the forest and when they spot something interesting, they stop and take it home and observe it. They do that again and again and again. That’s what they do.”
The fog
The fog. The wet trees dripping water down the backs of our shirts as we walk.
The library. Print this. ..then this… read by next week.
The preschool. The bustling, loud, sweet children. The director. My schedule. Encouragement.
My child!
The grocery store.
The Christmas lights at the houses of the rich.
Pie.
Dry leaves rustling
Listening for Fall
On my back gazing upward
Dry leaves rustling
Tranquil
Clouds blanket the earth
Against your chest, I lie still
Breathing in and out
A child lives here
The smell of play dough
In the carpet while I do
My yoga session
Summer
Wind through the oak trees
Soft notes rise into the air
From a lone guitar
Sunflowers
The ten sunflowers
You bought for her have wilted.
Why don’t you notice?
