Even if I could not see you
Your glow would cool my mind.
There you are, steadfast, at ease,
Lighting the night, putting right all
The harsh ills of the day, making
Me grateful for my eyes, your peace.
The separation from my blog since my last post in October 2015 is the longest I've had since creating Writerquake. Focus has been a main issue. I absolutely hate that, and hope to reign myself in, settle down here more often. I have missed writing, and, more than that, have missed reading posts at other blogs so much and sharing comments with you.
The only consistent writing I've done is at Facebook in the form of Haiku posts. I've gathered some of them here to communicate how I witnessed the seasons of 2015, simple proof that I kept my eyes and heart open last year.
Muted moon tonight
Hazy ring wide as the dome
Night birds flew through it
Road through rainforest
Sopping air, clouds high and bright
Prisms burst through fog.
Tense ionic air
Zeuss rumbles and cracks - birds still
Wash of sweet rain calms
Sleeps in black velvet
More precious than daytime's gauze
Summer night sublime
Silver Creek whispers:
"Remember, remember when . . ."
I know when is Now
Shooting star arcs in delight
Dusts me with insight
Last rays on gold fish
Bird of prey soars with dinner
First/last flight for fish.
Golden spider weaves
Midnight, porchlight, rain falling
Autumn comes softly
Power saw's loud scream
Silent fir's last day of sun
Old-growth thuds on ground
Low frothy white clouds
Tiny star plays hide and seek
My bright deep-space friend
Asleep beside me
Stretches, grunts, long legs twitching
Wild puppy runs free
Tree finally up
Lights purple red green gold white
So as to not disturb the silence from which
this poem came I will whisper goodbye.
No goodbyes to the space that will always
hold us but goodbye to the vastness of
that space. No goodbyes to your face that
is there for friends in the good book of
these days, and no goodbyes to your face
in smiling pictures from those days,
but goodbye to seeing eye to eye.
Goodbye to your hands: I loved them to
look at, and being gifted by them with
pleasures. Goodbye to the pleasure of
knowing you well. Goodbye to your voice-
its tone and timbre, and your written voice-
its passion and poignancy. Goodbye to all you
were for me—heartbreaker and muse, taker
and lover, forsaker and friend, forgiver and
__________ *first stanza - with a nod to final line ofHOW TO BE A POETby Wendell Berry
Today, five months after your death,
two young deer surprised me in the
yard at dawn. One trotted rhythmically
across the lawn, but the other stood
stoically feet away and we regarded
one another with quiet understanding.
The day held sunshine that filtered
through the slats and rays streaked
your bed. I lie briefly there each
night, my head quieted, my bones
sinking into spots where you slept.
Truth is, I still weep for you there.
At dusk clouds bloated with moisture
chugged across the sky, competing
with the sun. Eventually, as was pre-
dicted, they won. But the glorious
contest colored a modest rainbow,
while birds worked on symphonies.
Tonight gentle rain misted the yard
you loved well. It puddled in huge
rocks where it fell, those turquoise
ones we had hauled here that are
beloved by butterflies in summer.
I think they leave their prints behind.
This is me. I am the sea.
I am pale as foam and
blue, drenched by a river
of tears flowing into me —
From me waves of change
are blowing, yet
I am still in the night,
cradling my host of loved
ones of the deep. We
sleep with the moon in
reflective trust as aeons
of dreams turn the tide.
Written for The Mag: Mag 265 that inspired with the above image prompt: painting by Daria Petrilli.