DAWNING FOG PODS

FOGGY MORNING IN MAINE

Arising at four a.m.
I witness the flash of dawn,
a ritual these days.
Teacup warming my hand,
I raise the porcelain cup
from my grandmother’s tea set
treasured, passed on to me,
perfect for celebrating each new day
on Mother Earth’s green earth.

A hearty hooty-hoot-hoot
echoes through the tall trees
as the repetitious call
interrupts my focus on the
silver flash of dawn
and the sun breaking
over the treetops across the Kennebec.

Sliding glass doors
allow a vast view
of steaming fog-pods
rising from the forest floor
out of the lush garden;
a thick carpet filled with
varieties of green ferns.

Secrets and worries whispered
evaporate away,
silently upward
into the Universe
safe
forever
more.

GETTING THERE FROM HERE

Peering down through the water

past variations of deep green, golden,

olive, mocha, teal and silvery seaweed,

undulating movements detected far below.

Curiosity in check, attention diverted

to ever growing lines of people forming

for whale-watching tours,

lighthouse trips on double-decker boats,

and anxious honeymooners, listening

to waves sloshing against dock pilings,

impatiently waiting for a sunset cruise in Maine.

“How deep is the water here?”…one asks,

pulling fresh saltwater taffy from their teeth

as they stand on the weathered dock.

A precise answer would take too long,

offer more details than expected,

impart more information than

a passing curiosity warrants.

The answer, “You just can’t get there from here.

The bottom is farther than a person

could swim without an air tank or gills,

more icy than bare skin could withstand,

darker than the inside of those caves

way up on the cliffs across the bay.”

A fish-finder, chart, sonar,

or sounding device

would calculate precise readings

of water depth in mathematical terms.

Will those statistics offer

a clear vision, a sensation

of what it feels like to experience

icy underwater depth,

or feel the panic

of crushing water pressure,

to realize the sensation

of burning saltwater

filling ones lungs?

Taking a deep breath,

catching my reflection in the surface,

drowning in intense thoughts

I imagine – probably not,

those thoughts remain

buried incredibly deep.

FANATASIA

Burning scarlet rays
of the morning sun
pulse through layers of chiffon fog
revealing crystal rainbow prisms.
Dewdrops cling to leaf tips,
until they slowly evaporate.

Feathery tender ferns unfurl
under the warmth of ole sol,
magically awakening dozens of
Eastern Tiger Swallowtail
cocoons suddenly hatching.

In a gentle swirl, an upward funnel
bursting with virgin butterflies
releases into the sky, reaching
the tallest tree tops
only to disappear,
guided by instinct
to seek the nectar of life.

LINES by LEON

I AM THE HAPPY WINNER OF LEON’S FREE BOOK DRAWING! YAYYYY! READ ONE POEM BELOW:

THE LITTLE THINGS – by LEON STEVENS

STOP. Feel that?

The warmth of the sun

the breeze on your face

rain, it has its own unique smell

fells like tiny punches when it lands

wherever you are

there is beauty and wonder about

even if seemingly insignificant

a smell, a color, a sight, a feel

there is always something to appreciate

like cool grass under bare feet.

FEET ENJOYING COOL GRASS

WATCHING THE SUN RISE ~ FACING WEST

sunshine face in stained glass
SUNSHINE-FACE STAINED GLASS by T. Blen Parker

Feeling the heat
Of a blazing orb
Warming my soul,
Shadows begin to emerge
Across the lawn before me.

A lone cardinal rests
in a warm sunbeam
motionless, beak facing East.
Dozens of cheery goldfinch
Alight and take off,
highlighting the air
surrounding me.

Fox tumble and play,
Napping on a moss covered
Abandoned stonewall,
doorstep to their
Hillside den where mother
Awaits the next feeding.

Phoebe’s announce their presence
As though megaphones,
Competing with echoes
From the riverside
Of two pairs of
Pileated woodpeckers.

A velvety muscular buck
and his brown eyed doe
lead their frisky but timid
spotty twins through
an established path
leading from the river up
to neighbor’s gardens, just
beginning to sprout.

Mourning doves coo
And innocently peck
At seeds dropped
Around the base
Of the birdfeeder pole.

Suddenly a sharp-shinned hawk strategically swoops in
to clutch away their innocence,
returning to her nest
with a lifeless body
in her lanceolate talons.

Fat frisky grey squirrels get
A running start to jump
Halfway up the now greased pole
Hoping for enough traction
To leap onto one of four
Seed-filled feeders.

Rusty striped chipmunks,
Cheeks filled fat with seeds,
Race back and forth
From feeder to sub-porch nest
Shared with dozens
Of garden snakes.

Shadows become shorter now,
The day warms and brightens
As the little pond across the drive
Comes alive with peepers,
Providing background music
For today’s sunrise event.