Eagle Calls Out

Eagle calls out a greeting,

a sharp cry, unseen, over the lake

echoing, welcoming me back to his domain,

still water reflecting the blue sky stretching beyond

earth’s boundaries, boundaries that hold me here, earthbound,

or a warning, perhaps, calling out, luring me away

from an aerie’s nest I cannot find

in my search for him, my eyes trained

on the horizon, scanning the treetops,  

the old dead trees, barren branches that provide for him a perch

where I’ve seen him in other years, grand and stately,

posed and poised to spread his wings and fly,

disappearing over the hills I search now

on the other shore, dreaming, disappearing myself, 

hearing only an echo stretching beyond earth’s boundaries, 

calling out, a sharp cry, unseen.

Mother Nature Is ...

Mother Nature is a gentle woman,

kind, matronly, and patient,

like an old grandmother, gray-haired,

a brood of grandchildren ‘round,

expecting of us only a kindness

and a respect of things, old, lovingly placed;

but cross her, reach out your hand

to disturb the delicate fragility

there and she’ll slap your hand,

in warning of her authority,

sternly reminding us of our place,

her voice raised, a gentle rain

turned to torrents or withheld,

the earth rumbling, shuttering,

a forest turned to ash and death,

or gale forces lashing at the shoreline

and our shutters pulled tight against her

who, in the end, forgives, balance restored,

a gentle woman, kind, matronly, and patient.

The Gift

(for Leola Day, Nana)

The cow lilies come first,

big and yellow and awkward

like their namesake who chews

her cud, drowsy along the pasture fence;

and we stick it out through June

into July, watchful for the arrival

of the Pond Lilies, coming next,

rising from the lake’s bed amid lily pads,

green and round, the gravid buds appearing,

breaking open in sunlight to settle

on the water’s surface, smooth and reflective,

reflecting the delicate white petals spreading

to catch the sun’s yellow at her center laid;

and we reach down below the surface

to pluck the tubular stem anchoring her there,

illegal, we believe, to do this,

to take one flower, one lily floating there,

but that doesn’t stop us, taking this gift for Nana,

a yearly gift to where she rests now,

because it was her favorite,

because we always did, and do now,

still, for her, this lily of our lives,

delicate, the sun caught, reflected back in us remembering.

Luna Moth

Out my window this morning,

clutching lightly to the screen,

suspended there really, was a Luna moth

as big as my palm, his great green wings,

pale and edged in black, spread wide,

reflecting the morning sun illuminating him,

and pulled down into a narrow tail,

his shape distinctive, as if pinned there

by an amateur lepidopterist to display

for me, this morning rising, this visitor

drawn to my night light dimly burning

while I slept, a specter leaving unseen

as I busied myself in the heat of the day,

the green world we live in taking us in,

each in his own place, drawn to different lights,

fulfilling a purpose, illuminated, fulfilled.