A leaf falls.
A bird sings.
A bee winds her way from flower to flower
and the sun shines on the ivy carpeting the rhododendron thicket.
How many times have I described this to you?
Every morning it feels new to me.
The same bees.
The same birds.
The same rhododendron blossoms bursting pink and white amidst their long-fingered leaves.
The same mossy ground and the same dried leaves crunching underfoot, new life springing up, lead buds from the forest floor.
The same blue sky and white puffy clouds and gentle breezes rustling the trees so they look as if they are dancing in time to the bird’s symphony.
My eyes take in the greens on greens and baby blues and pink and white as I breathe in the musky smell of forest air
and I want to tell you about the yellow hairy caterpillar inching past
and the berry-colored flower petals reaching up
and the bird in the feeder fluttering her wings and eying me warily
and the trees reverberating as the fleeing flock of birds flies away.
I wish for you the peace of a crisp mountain morning and a lazy afternoon.
© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019
Popular posts from this blog
Originally Posted: Tuesday, June 20, 2017 Winter On a day in which snow and ice imprison me in my home, and my todo list consists of revisions, judgments, and critiques, I take a pause to appreciate the long lines of the tree shadows stretching across the silky smooth sheet of white, reminding me that out of my shadows is light overhead. The dog, insistently putting her head in my lap as I try to put pen to paper, insisting on love. The blanket, lovingly knit by a woman I once heard, draped across my lap, warming my legs and my heart. © Christine Salkin Davis, 2017
Valentine Sonnet She’s the shy girl in her scuffed Mary Janes watching for lacy pink “Be Mine” hearts drop into the gold painted glitter-filled box, nervously holding her breath, but in vain. Her valentine box is ready to gain blood-red Sweethearts, frilled hearts, on her desktop. She’s waiting for Prince Charming’s step to stop in front of her freckle-faced grin, again. Now she’s the very same girl who’s so learned, no matter how much gold is spray painted or how long for Prince Charming she’s waited. that love is not found in boxes and verse, but in moments of heart filled connection, and in moments of tingling affection. © Christine Salkin Davis, 2019
On the sale of our sailboat, dreams soaring away, on a run, in the wind, sad to see the horizon approach; the sun behind me shines a light on the breeze and me laughing out loud at the seemingly lazily floating by world. Past the mem’ries of days when we soaked in the warmth of the sun, glad to be kissing air, tanning skin, long brown hair blowing back, catch the wind, feel the speed, trust the tack. The elation of fun, when the boat caught a run, in the moment by moment days when we won the world and the wind, and our lives, looking back, the horizon ahead and our faith in our ride. Now, the blue's not the sea but our aging betide. © Christine Salkin Davis, 2019