11/11

Poppies

paper-thin petals
wars fought, lives fraught, HONOR
remembrance today

haiku by me

Petals fall like snow

bright and soft, we begin our lives
held tightly, nurtured, protected

we strain against that which holds us
seeking freedom, growth

but do we understand
that by our declaration of independence,
we are forever changed

Hope Springs

pink buds peeking out
battered souls seeking solace
as winter gives way

The theme of HOPE was inspired by this post. Thank you, Beth!

Misnomer

In the springtime, blossoms fall
pink and white, yellow and purple—
like fat, flowery snowflakes—
each one different from the other.

In the summer, cold air collides with warm
causing thunderstorms. Lightning strikes
produce forest fires. Winds whip
and send ashes falling near and far.

In the autumn, leaves turn
yellow, red, and russet
and fall to the ground as surely
as their springtime cousins.

In the winter, the skies darken
and clouds release their moisture;
sometimes rain, sometimes snow,
but always falling to the earth.

Blossoms
Ash
Leaves
Snow

So could someone please explain
that with all of the downward vertical activity
why only one of these four seasons
is called fall?

MTM: The streak is over

How do you describe
the sound a raindrop makes
as it filters through the leaves
from the sky to thirsty ground
after 80 days without moisture?

The musical notes
of a babbling brook in the gutter
The percussion
on the roof (almost steady)
like the snare drums
of a 6th grade band

And the hollow emptiness
when those sounds slow to stillness
in the pre-dawn quiet
until all you hear
is the clock (tick, tock) calling
Autumn, Autumn

 

Interrupted by a brain hemorrhage

multiple crescents
green leaves filtering sunlight
viewing the eclipse

Icy Feathered Hope

We’ve been in a deep freeze. Weather changes are coming, I can feel it in my hardware.
The Resident Teen also suffers, but there is no rhyme or known reason for when his setbacks occur.   

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –

That perches in the soul –

And sings the tune without the words –

And never stops – at all –

And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –

And sore must be the storm –

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm –

I’ve heard it in the chillest land –

And on the strangest Sea –

Yet – never – in Extremity,

It asked a crumb – of me.

by Emily Dickinson

Little Foot at 5 months

peeking out at me
from behind toys on your tray
eyes of blue gray brown

 

Pardon me, Emily…

In Search of Sunshine

hope is a green shoot
pushing away the debris
of last year’s dead growth

Wonderful Weekend

weekend with baby
definitely worth the price
(ankle swelling, pain)

I love this little boy so very much!