Mother of the World

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She recreates the world
one breath at a time.
Silently I wonder
at its beauty.
Beneath the boughs
snowflakes fall.
Each an archipelago
of sacred mystery.
I take in the magic:
slow sips of nectar
lift my heart,
fill me with her symphony.

artwork by Nicholas Roerich

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Violet

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Violet, I watch you come to life.
You open outward from a pearly,
bud. The motion of life written
in you, a spiraling, curling beauty;
always reminding me
of the mysteries that lie
in the sacred.

Yours isn’t the linear line dear
to Man and the rational mind.
It is the Mother’s way.
In you Nature shows
her hidden power.

I watch your majestic purple
unfolding over days. You move
as though a creature
asleep; curled in on yourself,
a timid child with rounded fists
hovering over her eyes.

You glisten. Your velvet stem
of emerald and magenta,
has grown fine hairs
that whisper against the light.

Each day you peer
out a bit further.
From your head a cup of leaves
unfurls to protect their golden,
inner treasure. Deep, royal violet,
fresh and cool. In them the thirst
of life moves visibly through veins
of love and hope.

I hear your music. The melody
sounds in my ear, singing
the beginning of renewed life.
In your presence I remain
in awe each day a little deeper.

The apple blossoms pink and white

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The apple blossoms pink and white.
We sit sprawled out on a blanket
that belonged to nonna in our backyard.
You are eight months old.
Your whole body is round and lovely.
You have soft full cheeks and the bluest of eyes.
You play busily, observing the world,
flowers, bees, branches, specks of dirt.

Interspersed into every action
are the looks you steal at me, furtive, gleeful, curious.
There are moments when you laugh
in short staccato ha-has,
your whole face puckered in an impish grin.
I am imbued by a love so wide and deep
words fail to paint its full picture.

I look at the apple blossoms, and wonder
whether we will have apples this year.
There is a serendipitous connection
between my fertile outburst and the trees’.
Life moves in mysterious ways.

You are holding up one of the pieces of the rainbow,
the yellow one, thrusting your arm
back and forth in happy motion.
I look at you, at my life.
I feel complete.

My head on a seahorse pillow

My head on a seahorse pillow
It yawns blue in the evening’s lavender hour
Minutes slipping by knocking as marbles
A knot in my cheek
Reminding me that

Dreams come and go
And some reflect
The aquamarine underworld
Of lingering turtles

Gingerly laced with limber movement
I whisper listlessly to the droning traffic
And the cat glows while she pushes my buttons

I sit on my mat
With my hands on my knees
And contemplate the moon
In its meanders

I hold its roundness in my presence
And sigh for the mystery
That lies beyond the echo
Of a seashell

The calling of the wind and sand shouts sailboat
My horizon is the bridge over the highway
Mountain ghosts come out seldom these days
Peach glow and apparitions

I wander while the world squanders
Finagling a fingerling possibility
A diaphanous feline existence
Motivated by footprints, teacups, mint leaves…
The knowledge that contradiction is the shortest way to truth