There Are Limits

Let there be no doubt this is 
a prize possession. Built in 1860
it is sturdy, almost impervious to
wear but worn well by those whose
home it was over the years, farmers
and their families, working the land
and providing food for theirs and
yours, a proud tradition. The land
now fallow, the seventy acres of
field and forest in genteel display
to hold apiaries, grow organic
root crops, and home to nostalgia,
a windmill refurbished, and a
draft horse treasured, the menagerie
completed with your rescue dogs
and cats, a full dozen withal.
Back then people worked hard
and stayed fit. The house, since
modernized and fleshed out with
plumbing, electricity, updated
with must-have appliances and a
tractor, was built to last and it has
yet moderation was the key to
its old bones, refusing now to
accept your queen-sized bed.


 

Everlasting Spring

It lifts the human spirit as
few other events of Nature are
capable of, the timeless assurance
that what has passed will
inevitably resurge, like the
proverbial Phoenix; perish only
to return in a blaze of glorious
life renewed. That eternal
assurance forms the bedrock
of hope and trust, that the
revolving cycle of death and
birth are universal to our
primal existence extending to
the present and surging into the
future. A colossal, unfathomable
clockwork of endlessness of
which we represent a minuscule 
afterthought, but one we
experience throughout our brief
appearance in time and place on
this planet, feeling the warm earth
in our hands as spring returns
and we plant, nurture and glean
with Nature's patient tutelage.

Oh, The Pain of It!

Vanity and unrealistic but ever
hopeful aspirations motivate me
from refraining to sensibly discard
what no longer fits. Items of treasured
apparel become even more treasured
when by some mysterious alchemy
clothing once so becoming no longer
can be buttoned, zipped and struggled
into. This is a poor reward, I mutter
for appreciating colour and design.
Yet I cannot bear to part with them
thinking, promising myself that
by next season I will firmly confront
my appetite, and trimmer, all those
valued garments will fit again, then
I grimly pack them away to await
summer. Hauling out that summer
wardrobe and holding my breath in
anticipation and the fervent wish 
that it will be enough to reduce that
expanded waistline ... good grief
those trousers fit! Then I primp and
I preen, until suddenly recalling that
those were a pair too large last year,
yet tucked away with the others. In
chagrin I view myself, grimacing.

The Woodland Stroll

As reckless decisions are measured
our determination to forge on
not to forgo any part of enjoying
a glorious day, might have seemed
ill advised. On the other hand, not much
was at stake but brief discomfort and
a bit of dismay that blue skies suddenly
welcomed a surge of dark clouds 
crowding out the sun. All day a
ferocious wind had shushurated through
this spring landscape, enlivening trees
in a graceful dance, bowing and
curtsying, quite unabashed that
nature had not yet delivered their
ball gowns of living green. As we
set out into the forested ravine the
initial patter of large drops anointed
our heads while we sought haven under
a large old pine scarce able to capture
the rain. But the cloud passed, the 
darkness lifted and we ventured on
captivated by spring violets, trilliums
and lilies-of-the-valley still resonating
from that morning's kiss of the sun.
The wind bellowed through the woods,
whipping last fall's dried foliage off
the forest floor like startled doves
rising in the whipped air. Fiercer
gusts blew up a storm of movement
forcing trees to release dead limbs
smashing their descent among
awakening bracken below. And we
quickening our stride were outmatched
by a sudden drenching downpour,
nature's comeuppance to our complacent
trust that luck would see us through
our day's woodland hike unscathed.

Sinister Spirits

It should be to no one's
surprise that Malice and Spite
are the very closest of companions.
As beastly emotions go, these 
two are twinned spirits
born of their mother
Malevolence, and well and truly
tutored by her in the evil process
of inflicting torment and pain.
The two vie with one another
in efforts to prove that one
easily outdistances the other
in the exquisite needle work
of wretchedness. Beware
befriending them as useful
manipulative devices, since
those ardent practitioners are
more than capable of turning
the screws backhandedly for
their own unexpected pleasure in
the delicate extraction of revenge.

Life In The Universe

Convinced that we are not alone
in the vastness of the universe,
astronomers dream of extra-
terrestrial life. An intelligence
not unlike our own.

Great dish telescopes revolve
to the music of the spheres,
picking up radio waves that
scientists work to decode,
finding . . . nothing as yet.

Just think: somewhere in that
great infinity soulmates may exist!
Themselves training devices our
way. Picking up signals
and frantically unscrambling
the meaningless tangle.

Myself, I constantly turn my
radio dial looking for signs of
intelligent life right down here.
Those beings could be coming up
with the very same results.

Nothing.
Nothing out there.
Nothing down here.
There is no intelligent life.

 

Mutually Appreciated

He is a frequent guest, but a
shy one, arriving unheralded
when least expected, but we do enjoy
welcoming him. He entertains us
in exchange for a meal and we 
rejoice at his presence, though his
modesty dictates that he wear a
mask, as his mother does and
his father, too. Not outlaws, but
clever souls they are, choosing to 
live among others not of their kind.
They are an urban legend who
though at home in natural
surroundings beneath a forest
canopy, choose to visit us, too.
True, it's no way to treat a guest,
with cast-off crackers, crusts of
bread and kitchen waste placed in
a backyard composter, but our guest
politely accepts the offerings and
has never offered any complaints.