autumn morning drive
past ponds with gray whorls of mist
revealing secrets
like the blue heron
materializing there
at the edge of hope
Blue Heron in Mist. Elizabeth Castillo, San Diego. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.
with thanks to the herons I see in several misty ponds as I drive to work – they lift my spirits immeasurably
a senryu inspired by my PictureThis plant identifier app:
My backyard mushroom
is possibly poisonous
—good luck with long life
Adaptability
is the key
to surviving
and savoring
your days
in the sun
Anolis carolinensis, green anole, Carolina anole: call it what you will, it is hanging out on the side of the house, basking in the October afternoon sun, feeling green…
…while its pal here, hanging out six inches away, momentarily eschews greenness for a more autumnal hue. Green anoles are sometimes called American chameleons.
They are also considered signs of good luck, prosperity, renewal, and healing, due to their ability to regenerate their tails.
The anole figures large in Celtic lore as a spiritual guide and a symbol of life, death, and rebirth.
You have to wonder, looking at their tiny, wise, ancient eyes…
*******
with thanks to E. Johnson for the photos
I cannot say, Child, what you might be experiencing within, but I can tell you I dreamed
that we were sailing along a river with green overhanging boughs
and that the waters before us were only troubled by a succession
of indentations made by tiny feet running rapidly across
—a little Jesus lizard, there in the recesses, trying to catch
or, on second thought, cavorting with, a dragonfly which shimmered and skimmered
away just as the swan drifted into view, its white feathers transforming as it neared,
changing from white to gold flushed with crimson
and then the eagle, gliding low over the glimmering water, huge, like life itself,
its curved yellow beak closed, its sharp eye affixed on us, not on the hunt,
merely acknowledging our presence
and so we drifted on and I didn’t even realize until the shore loomed
before us, rocky and steep, that we’d been riding in a little wooden boat
that navigated the river by its own power, not ours, to land us
right where we needed to be, and that we’d be able to navigate
this embankment, too, for there amid the stones and earth were steps
perfectly placed for our climb.
Cincinnati – Spring Grove Cemetery & Arboretum ‘An Unreal Moment, and a Gift.’” David Paul Ohmer CC BY 2.0.
*******
with thanks to the Two Writing Teachers community
for the place to share Slices of Life
even when they are but dreams
There’s a scientific explanation
for the mist rising
from the glassy ponds
along my morning commute
then there’s poetry
the perceiving of
elemental transitions
autumnal ghosts rising
from the silver surface
the old heron
is still there by water’s edge
not wading
but watching
in the cool gray
in-betweenness
quite possibly studying me
an unnatural phenomenon
a recurring phantasm
passing through
its world
Crows, historically associated with death, are highly intelligent birds with powerful memory. In folklore they convene to determine capital punishment for wrongdoers—a murder of crows, apropos. Yet they mourn their dead and will even place small sticks or other objects around a deceased fellow crow, in a sort of funeral rite.
On Sunday morning, crows perched atop the steeple cross at church as congregants arrived. Harbingers of death? Casters of judgment? Consider the cross, an instrument of capital punishment, particularly of someone “who knew no sin” offering himself as a sacrifice for all the wrongdoing of humankind…For God did not send His Son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world through Him might be saved (John 3:17 NKJV); For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God (2 Corinthians 5:21 ESV).
So sit the crows
on the steeple cross
a judgment passed
a death sentence cast
yet overturned and overcome
so long ago
—one wonders what the crows know.
Yesterday I tried to rescue a cicada that had fallen on the pavement in the bus loop at school.
I didn’t see it fall. I only saw it on its back, wildly fluttering its wings, unable to right itself.
As cicadas are huge insects, many of my colleagues preferred not to get near it.
But I have loved cicadas all my life. Their summer song, that choral buzzing swelling from the treetops, sends my spirit spiraling skyward. I find it among the most comforting of Earth’s songs.
And so I went and picked it up.
The cicada beat its wings in a frenzy, for a second clinging to my dress with its hook-legs.
I placed it, right side up, in the mulch at the roots of a crape myrtle.
It flipped over on its back again.
This is what cicadas do, what most insects do, when they are dying. Their legs can’t support them anymore.
I figured the creature would be gone by the time school dismissal was over. All I could do was provide a dignified passing for it in the mulch under the tree versus being flattened by the wheel of a bus.
But it was still alive, moving its legs a little, when time came for me to leave.
So I put it in a cup and brought it home.
It was still and silent for most of the ride, except for one episode of weak wing-beating against the cup.
I placed it, right side up, under some ivy in a planter on the back deck.
A couple of hours later, it was on its back again, still feebly moving a leg or two.
I don’t know how long it takes cicadas to die. I don’t know if they feel pain, anxiety, or fear. I know they live the greater part of their lives underground (up to 17 years, some of them) and their time above is short (a few weeks). I start listening for their song at the end of May, the month of my birth, and I hear the last strains sometime in September. Cyclical, symbolic creatures, cicadas. Across cultures and legends, they’re most often associated with immortality and resurrection.
Yet this one was dying. I couldn’t help it or save it. I couldn’t tell it how grateful I am for its kind, and it couldn’t care. I couldn’t give it peace.
In the end, it gave me peace to let it play out here at home with honor in the ivy-sheltered planter. As night drew near, dozens of other cicadas called from the trees…a fitting requiem for a fellow northern dusk-singing cicada.
Maybe it could hear. Maybe the song was a comfort, a blessing, a benediction.
It was for me.
My northern dusk-singing cicada
Summer evening
after dinner
the three of us
are riding home
through the countryside
late-day sun
is amber-bright
when giant raindrops
begin to slap
against the windshield
Raining while the sun shines,
says my husband
from the passenger seat
(I’m in the back;
the boy is driving)
—there’s got to be a rainbow
around here somewhere
The boy makes the left turn
—There it is, he says
wide shimmering bands
hanging in the air
like a gossamer curtain
touching the road
right before us
breathless, we ride
right through it
to find another
and another
just ahead
so many rainbows
gleaming down through
the trees
over the fields
heaven’s glory bending
to caress the earth
a prismatic promise
poured out
all along
our way home
At the end of the rainbow. Mara ~earth light~. CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.
I didn’t get photos, alas, but the rainbows touching the road before us yesterday evening happened to be near the spot where my husband and I saw an eagle sitting majestically by the roadside back in early 2019. In this picture the background is dark whereas our scenery was vivid green in the amber-gold light of late day… but there’s an eagle, and the sojourning child carrying solace and security in the form of a teddy bear in a backpack speaks to me.
Something sacred is in this place.
On the first required workday
before school begins
I drive the familiar backroads
once again
dew-drenched pastures
and old weatherboard barns
defy time
they are
their own world
then to my delight
a patch of tangled sunflowers
on the right
must have been growing here
all summer
I didn’t know
I think of Van Gogh
walking the rustic village
of Arles
up ahead, the pond
I scan it quickly
for the great blue heron
and there it is
at water’s edge
nearest the road
big and gray-blue
like a watercolor rendition
so perfect a pose
I feel light
like these are signs
that all will go well
with the work
lying before me
peace becomes strength
in my spirit
in my bones
on the second workday
I see it all again
even the heron
I can always face
the day ahead
whenever I see
the heron
I am so light
I could soar
then on the third day
without warning
orange signs on white gates
say the road is closed
I must detour
no passing the pond
no seeing heron
standing with elegiac grace
in the still water
although I know
it’s there
so on I fly
day after day
going out of my way
to get to where
I need to be
for now at least
I have the sunflowers
Vincent would say
it’s enough
keep painting the day
and the required work
beautiful
around the barriers
until they are gone
that is
the way of it
Coming home; the pond is just ahead but I can’t see it
lit bits and pieces 