Calendar Days: Anne and I Begin to Put Together Next Year's Calendar. Here Are Some Pages

 

Sonya in the Field: August 2020

We’ve emerged from the hills of Jug End into the paradise of the open fields 

Will butterflies appear, ex nihilo, in bursts of Super HD?

Birds sing like articulate brush-strokes from the fertile fingers of animators?

Flags fly in a sky of puffy clouds like the thoughts of heroes, doers, actors on the stage

of events: women 

Clouds pass above, like hungry souls praying for the gift of speech

 

Our daughter, a light into the future,

leads through fields of memories

All the green truth of the living world her truth now

What it means to live       this turn of the wheel

Images of Autumn: October 2020

Anne walks on a carpet of fallen leaves 

in the last days of autumn

From autumn to autumn,

from year to year,

the road leads on.

The leaves emerge in spring,

ripen in May

Hang large and languorous

in summer months.

Then turn the green blanket

of the forest to the farewell costume party of

October

Later, we find them underfoot

No need for the broom

We are walking the trail of the seasons

Each footfall landing on time 

What the Reeds See

The thing in itself. The thing in reflection.

Isn’t this what the painters have so often sought to do? Paint the light. And, as here,

the light on water. The reeds are not painting themselves. 

The water is painting them? Or the light.

Who can paint on water? The light. Only the light.

Who sees by light? Us. All of us. This sentient brotherhood. Deer drinking in a stream. Mallards floating by. Fish leaping to visible rumors of winged protein

All of us children   Of light 

Fog on the Marsh

A salt marsh by the shore. Impressions of a Great Egret and a couple of Mallards on an estuarial stream called Furnace Brook, as fog swirled through an afternoon disguised as some place else.

Who painted the colors? Who wielded the brush?

Concealment blew in the from cold saltwater, an arm of the sea stretching, a few hours lingering here

Inland, a five-minute stroll to the land of Everyday, blind to the occlusions of the shore.

Will that fuzzy white egret ever be the same? Will those mallards be taken back by their friends? Or hooted off

as the by-blows of some illusion?