Just before sunrise, faint hoof beats begin.
Through the grass wet with damp with dew, through the meadow and bog
Come three silver ponies, made of moonbeams and fog.
Their tails stream behind them like ghostly white lace
As they caper and prance with ethereal grace.
Now a pink and gold sunrise begins in the east
And it calls to its breast three magnificent beasts.
Now they rise from the mist with their soft equine cry
And with a toss of their manes become clouds in the sky.
The Garden in My Mind
It's nice to have a place to go, and hide when things are bad
I pull the weeds when they appear to keep my flowers bright
But recently, it occurred to me that things were not quite right
The colors faded when I approached, and no joy there did I find
Did I trespass, did I encroach my own garden in my mind?
Through careful thought and pondering, I began at last to see
That despite my careful gardening, the biggest weed was me.
Color Me Yellow
Given my propensity for letting things be, I never really paid much attention to dandelions until recently. A couple of weeks ago, one of them decided to take root in a crack of the sidewalk that runs in front of my inner city apartment house. I knew what it was right away; there's no mistaking those ragged edged, deep green leaves, even without its trademark bright yellow quasi-flower.
The landscapers that visit my apartment complex once a week aren’t what you would call professional; their work could be described as slip shod at best. Shrubbery is haphazardly trimmed, broken sprinkler heads stay that way for weeks, and tools are frequently left behind. Given these facts, I knew that this intrepid little plant stood a pretty good chance of survival, even in the unconventional place it had chosen to take root.
Every morning, on my slow, painful limp to the mailbox, I would check the progress of this misplaced bit of nature. How it had even managed to germinate was beyond me: there was no soil in that sidewalk crack, not even anything roughly resembling such, but yet, amazingly enough, it continued to grow, to flourish, in fact.
A few days ago, I noticed it was about to bloom, its lighter green, tight little sepals opening just a crack, offering a glimpse of its brilliant yellow core. The dandelion’s bud was tucked downward, out of the light, as though it were ashamed to show its face, perhaps embarrassed by the place in which it chose to live.
This morning, I noticed the dandelion was in full bloom, its resplendent golden head like a tiny sun looking up at me amid the gum wrappers and cigarette butts on this grim city sidewalk. I feel oddly proud of this valiant little flower, and I just love the color of it, easily the brightest thing on the sidewalk. Ever the impulsive romantic, in an action which seems silly and makes sense only to me, I have decided to name it Hope.
Dipping and bowing on its carbonized wick, it competes for brilliance with the celestial bodies; the moon and the stars which have only just awakened.
It calls out to them with its ebullient heat, knowing they cannot resist.
And now they come: The moths.
Whirling and spiraling, floating and weaving. Grey and white bits of a shattered ghost, borne aloft on a tender May breeze.
Enchanted, captivated, and disoriented; wanting only that light, that heat, that fire, as if craving death by the hand of a cruel lover.
Down in the Green
Live the wee nature spirits, the shy faerie folk.
Walk softly, don't speak, for they know you are there
For their bright eyes are cunning, peering out from their lair.
In a wild place where the Sidhe and elves go
In the cool, mossy shade, there's a green faerie glow.
Bring some violets and moonstones, and use gentle grace
And breathe in the magic of a green faerie place.
Photo credits: ©sianc - Can Stock Photo Inc., ©gsagi - Can Stock Photo Inc.,
©gajdamak - Can Stock Photo Inc., ©Leaf - Can Stock Photo Inc.