I’m seeing these everywhere today. These are always the first wildflowers I see bloom in the spring, here in MN. 🙂
Here there is a tree of thorns
and it has woven itself doors
and spread its canopy wide
like the mantle of an aroused lizard
and it has become a wall
this tree that made itself a door,
a wall of thorns.
But I see you
weeping iron tears that fall like blood
like small tokens.
like every futile thing born of grief
But then, imagine my surprise
when I see flowers bloom in every place
a tear has dropped.
And so I know that they were not futile, they did not dissappear
They watered that which needed them
and now I see you gathering blossoms
in the deep pocket you make of the skirt of your dress.
You wear them in garlands, these flowers, around your neck, wrists, and ankles. You
display them in your hair.
with bated breath to see
what you will do with them
beneath the watching moon. — Annette Marie Smith
Summer, green, fern, and branch,
beautiful words, small but precious gifts for the gods who left us behind.
We keep offering gifts.
Every year the birds sing and shadows shift.
The sun sets and the moon rises, a pale flickering
old timey movie. What wouldn’t we give
to share just one moonbeam, one sunflower,
one unshuttered day with them
these household gods of ours who have left us behind.
Our continued presence is what we perennialy offer
sacrificing on the altar of loss the very best we have to give —
ourselves wafting to them on the smoke of our love, our life. — Annette Marie Smith
and where there is dapple
it looks to be due to hand dipping
in the delicious chocolate shade. – Annette Marie Smith
The night comes with freight cars of dreams strung out behind it. The smoke of darkness spills from its smokestack and a long low wail, that could be a train’s whistle, rides the rails of your ears to your nervous system depot. It could be a train whistle or it could be the caller of souls. — Annette Marie Smith
The wolves kept their word that night and for every night thereafter, through countless nights and long years until their mortal eyes could watch over her no more. But by that time they, and she, had become something larger than their original selves.
She became the very pith of vulnerability, a goddess in her own right , Fides Quae, whose strength lay in the fragile line, like an exposed throat, of trust. The wolves leapt into the heavens and became the constellation Lupus Immortalis. Their eyes glitter with all the endurance of diamonds lit with the fire of wild hearts in the eternal night of space.
They watch over the hearts of those that despite having every reason to be wary, give themselves to trust in the same way that a sleeper gives herself to dreams. — Annette Marie Smith