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?
