Sandborn River Song

One day while

 photographing

 I grew leaves.

How can it be that

I slips skins

with such ease?

Light breezes twirled my

petticoat, and a chartreuse

sister drifted orange light.

Earthborne – feathery

grasses and crisped

  travelers meet those

 who have already

transformed – 

crumbling minerals,

wings and bones

 nourish sweet soil

 rich in moisture

fungus and mold.

New life unfolds.

Five fingered petals

  crimson hands

 fly by – just a few, 

infusing bodies

still vibrant

with song.

Thanks – giving

is a natural high.

 Not far behind

  old bones ache

from wandering alone

 for so long…

Fire on the mountain

is thin this year – 

 Yet roaring flames

consume our Elders

whose bark is smoldering,

seed cones charred,

 shriveled tombs

will not release

 the dead.

We celebrate

 Deep Rose

and do not

 ask for more

when winds

bring smoke 

and sorrow

to choke us. 

Crouched

in green,

focus is

movement,

one hoarse croak –

 Where is

that fly?

 Cold blooded

haunches

hug stone

still warmed from 

 an autumn star.

I awaken then

gazing into a silver stream

  swept along

down the Sanborn

as clouds burst

blue and gold

 and the peace

I feel is mine

to grow,

to own.

Dedicated to my dear cousin Billy Pottetti who walked beside me today… (10/4/21)