painted in possibility….

I’ve chased the light each evening this September
down winding roads,  across fields and ditches,
plunging through brush to find sky enough,   horizon enough,
to stand in that last lingering splash of kiss
before the sun dives down to wake the other side.

I feel hungry for it,
that mystic moment,
that parting flash of smile,
because for that one sweet spot in time,  life feels slow and soft and mellow
instead of how of often seems,


and I join the sky in celebration,
a burst of thanks for the wine and cream
and bristle and blush and gravel of the day,
the all of it weaved together beautiful from parts and pieces
that were ordinary and sobering and glorious and blistering.


I see it,  whispered clear in color and light,
this hope in a love that doesn’t leave or go cold,
doesn’t quit on the day before it’s finished and done
and it fills my cup
till some  fear gets rinsed out
and some ache gets healed up
and the broken heartstrings of the day get re-strung
and tuned to possibility again.

For that one golden moment,  everything seems
glazed in possibility
and that is reason enough.

“Far too many people die with a heart that’s gone flat with indifference,
and it surely must be a terrible way to go.
Life will offer amazing opportunities,
but we’ve got to be wide awake to recognize them.”
-Beth Hoffman
from “Saving Cee Cee Honeycutt”

September sunset….

I live among the trees,
grand oaks and maples and sycamores and poplars
that gift us with their shade and rustle,
a rich sound-stage for songbirds and owls
and bands of other feathered musicians
who fill our days and nights with their achingly beautiful sounds.
I love our trees and they mostly love us back,
dropping the kindling for our fires
and painting our seasons with their poetry.


But other than a wee sunny spot in front for growing things,
the sunset sky doesn’t find us here in our little home in the grove
and for many years I’ve bustled busy during that golden hour,
finishing my day work and beginning my evening chores
so I can steal away some time beneath the stars.

 My heart is calling me out this month,
beyond the trees,   where the sun sets brilliant
over fields and farms and parks and gardens
that I know and love by day.


I’m making a gift to myself for September,
an hour each evening to chase the light,
free to watch and listen
and awe and click my camera unhurried,
to nuzzle my face into the last lingering glow
of the day.

Come pour yourself another cup
and let’s sit  together quiet,  wrapped in golden rays,
filling up on light.
I’ll meet you there:)


Hope is no less realistic than despair.
It is still our choice whether to live in light
or lie down in darkness.”
-Rick Yancey