Magazine Posts

Fly the geese, wild,
high in the sky,
Honking, honking,
as they pass by.
An annual migration,
a passage of time.
Once more the season,
life springs sublime.
Soon there'll be goslings
down, by the pond,
as life in the World
will keep continuing on.

The ancient ground,
was hallowed then.
A sacred place,
with fertile soil.
The richest flowers,
bloomed every year,
in early Spring.
Fronds of Ferns,
will provide shape,
outlining a path,
beneath the trees,
as songbirds
sang a sweet
tune of melodies.

Rain continues falling
on the graying of the day.
Perhaps a glimpse of sunshine
will hold the clouds at bay.

A lonely duck,
sat on the lawn,
next to some water,
we called a pond.
A single duck
not yet a member
of a fowl menagerie.
Alone in the wild,
seeking out his friends
of fellow Drakes,
but mostly the Hens.

Small,
tiny,
words
come
to
mind,
describing
this
creature
to
you.
A
bird,
in
hand,
t'was
where
it
began.

This is yours,
it's also mine,
the air we breathe.
A life well lived
is our salvation,
to a better day.

Low grew the plant,
not touching the ground,
providing a shelter from
the rain and the Sun.
A beautiful plant of
red, yellow and greens,
not of this earth
but from your dreams.

An amber beam,
a light array.
Its golden glow,
now on display.
A rising Sun,
a cold sky.
Snow, a treat,
and we rejoice.
It's still wet.

Rubbing of limbs,
branches and twigs.
A rustling noise, of
leaves on the ground.
Not a dry prattle
but a more subdued sound.
Creaking of trunks,
Hemlock, Maple and Fir,
the start of a storm,
shaken needles from
Fir and Pine.
Falling rain, blown
by a strong breeze,
cold to the touch,
noses, ears and chin.
A Winter storm has
graced us again.

Tumbling of water
across rock and soil,
like a tea kettle
beginning to boil.
Carving a course,
willing to prevail,
making a new way,
for a water trail.

A roar by our window,
more noise at the door.
Rain is coming in batches,
wind is an aide.
Stay warm inside,
be not afraid,
for this passing storm,
will soon exit and be gone,
and there will be Sun,
comes the new dawn.

A golden orb,
a mottled Sun.
Is this the way
the World Begun?