local folk once feared

that open-pit mining would

scar their pristine land

but the wounds healed nicely

with the help of nature’s hand

 

–photo by me

 

wildfire smoke races

across the face of the sun

ancient alarms sound

high, fast-moving fumes summon

our deepest of primal fears

 

–photo by me

our fears may rear up

at times in our lives and stop

us dead in our tracks

we must look them in the eye

and bravely step over them

 

–photo by me

maelstroms in our lives

create a space for some to

show their true colors

others get caught up in things

and spiral into the deep

 

–photo by me

the sun lights our world

yet would hide the entire

universe from us

it takes the blackest of nights

to truly see where we are

slightly tattered wings

grace a butterfly in my

slightly tattered world

imperfection is the key

to the door of creation

 

–photo by me

me and the old dog

on the porch doing nothing

but remembering–

remembering, that is,

how to be happy again

more modern mothers

turning to wicca mean less

goddesslessnesses

a movement more or less apt

for even gods have mothers

an overnight storm

whips up chaos and fury

and reminds us all

of the violence of war

on this memorial day

 

–photo by me