poetry, fiction, nature, culture, compassion, love
It was in the winter when I first began walking,
seeking the journey of a quiet spirit,
the healing of silence in the woods,
the wholeness of a snowfall
in the purity of cold air.
And still today
the wisdom of a young man’s heart
can defend, provide a light
for this old guy to follow.
Winter still speaks.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2019, ancient skies
Evergreens, standing tall in the blue twilight
of the winter sky,
centurians of fir, spruce and pine trees
lingering in a scent of Christmas
guarding, watching over
the silence
of the snow covered forest.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2019, ancient skies
Winter enfolding, with layers of peace descending,
in the silence of snowfall
we move beyond the rage,
ready now for our time
of quiet reflection.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2019, ancient skies
I sometimes forget to walk within my healing,
boundaries not withstanding
often preferring
the purity of winter,
the breath of the forest,
and hawk wings balancing
on my shoulders.
Scars?
What scars?
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2019, ancient skies
The beauty of winter never lives within the color white
or in the silence of snowflakes surrounding, swirling
around our heads as chrystals
take shape in mid-air.
The beauty of winter
is usually found in the peace
we hold in our hearts,
sacred prayers
from the quiet within.
Well, I guess snow
is quite beautiful too.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2019, ancient skies
When it rains there are books that call to me, spending an afternoon with Frost, Dickinson, Rumi and Gibran.
And within our teacups whispers of your love for me. Why is it we are so quiet when it rains?
As is if listening becomes more important, as if the silence is sacred in our home.
I can count the raindrops falling, singing their softness, but even their fury
speaks of peace
in the comfort of our blankets
and the beauty of your face gently resting
as we both ponder the meaning of rain.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2015, 2018, ancient skies
A solitary golden feather is lifted as the wind moves over the hawk’s shoulder.
Chipmunks are breathless as the mountains bask in the sunlight.
Yet the hawk spins his head towards a murmuring sound close by. A lone figure, praying in the shadows of the mountain.
Peace is seldom easy, so the hawk kept silent, honoring his descendants.
Weren’t humans descended from birds of prey?
Note: Influenced by Native American creation stories.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2018, ancient skies
