Trio of Trees , a Skier and Halloween Sound Effects

It is blowy and blustery this morning. I'm perched at my private spot on the old log swing to gaze at the bay and autumn scenery that surrounds me. The ground is wet from the rain last night; The moss covered basalt beneath my feet, and along the rim of the escarpment makes me think of green velvet and Ireland - at least the Ireland I envision in my mind.

Some of the trees have changed color again , from a burnt orange to mustard yellow. Three white pines, the same three I've looked at a hundred times catch my attention as they sway back and forth in the wind. They stand close together, their branches intertwined. Is it my imagination ? or are they really happy and smiling, like a trio of friends with their arms around each other, grooving and moving to an old Leslie Gore song.

Unexpectantly and without warning the humming of a gas engine breaks my reverie. I can hardly believe my eyes when I see a lone boat pulling a skier , close to shore. I look more closely, the skier is wearing a wet suit, but his sudden crash, splash into the water makes me shiver. I zip my jacket and pull the collar closer around my neck. A sliver of sunshine peeks through the crowded, darkly clouded sky but quickly disappears. The lake , not the pretty blue of summer seems foreboding and black, like charcoal. I think again of the skier who is now long gone, disappearing like a thief in the night , and wonder why he chose this cool, chilly day to go skiing. The sound of the wind billowing through the trees grows louder, more menacing - perfect sound effects for this Halloween day.

Daily Routine

It is 6:30 a.m. , but outside is still dark like the middle of the night. Except for the occasional crackle of wood burning in the wood burning stove the house is quiet. I've read my morning Devotional (the one my friend Susan sends me each month), and have said my prayers. I think of my family, my friends, my home and thank God for the start of this new day and am glad and grateful for this moment, this time, this place, this space; For all that I have, all that I am. Yet, I want to grow. Be better than I am. A better wife, better mother, better daughter, better friend. Not so selfish, possessive or harbor er of past hurts, but light hearted and uplifting, giving to others an encouraging word.

Soon Gary will awaken and we'll begin the routine of our day; A cup of coffee, a game of Cribbage, the morning news. The phone will ring. It will be my mother asking how I am. Soon my son will walk up the stairs letting us know he's home from long hours working Night Auditor at the Holiday Inn. He'll share a funny story or two about rowdy hotel guests, then head for bed.

Our dogs, Sam E. Beagle and Missy scratch at the front door letting me know they're ready to go on a walk. I rub them behind their ears and pet their head, telling them to be patient, we can't go until I fill the feeders and the birds are fed.

It seems simple and easy, and it is. This everyday, ordinary life of mine. Some may long for something more glamorous and exciting, but for me, the routine of my day suits me fine.

October Twenty-fifth

Today is special
especially to me
and to my parents (and husband and sons
and to those who love me)
A day of importance
a day of exhuberance;
A day to ruminate
to illuminate,
to celebrate and rejoice
A day to dance , be
merry and full of mirth
October twenty -fifth,
the day of my birth.

59 nine years ago today, I was born to the most wonderful mother and wonderful dad who nurtured me, encouraged me, and showed me unconditional love. So young were they, when a babe in the womb was I; Their plans, their dreams put on hold to give their daughter better dreams to behold

Poetry on a Windy Night

The cold north wind blew
loud and mighty last night
whipping the shutters
on the side of the house
while inside we sat cozy and warm
reading poetry from
a stack of books
piled up on the floor;
e.e.cummings , modern
and dissident; Ella Wheeler Wilcox,
not famed like Cummings,
and other masters of poem,
but a popular poet
of her time; And Alfred Lord Tennyson
with his rhythum and prose, awed
and enthralled me
in his "Idylls of the King"
and the tale he wrote
Late passed the hours
and still I read
about good Arthur, the
knights and the
life they led.

A Perfect Fall Day

The weather has definitely changed. Not yet the cold of winter, but no longer the warm days of summer, the Fall air is cool and crisp like biting into a red Delicious apple fresh out of the ice box. I'm wearing my well worn jacket and knit cap as I sit on the old log swing. It is quiet and peaceful . I stare and study Rockford Bay, wondering if I'll ever grow tired of what I like to call, "my own private paradise". I conclude I never will. Each season brings a different, slightly unique aspect to the same view, and I continue to be enchanted anew.

Along the shore line, boat slips are empty. Jet skies and ski boats have been stored away until next spring. Large lake homes are closed and locked up, keys handed over to winter care takers. The only activity on the lake is several sea gull's circling close to the water, looking for a good fishing spot. The water is glassy, smooth; Like a mirror it reflects the forest trees in all their beauty, even picking up the warm autumn colors - deep orange, corn yellow, red and amber displayed on the deciduous maple, paper birch and cottonwood.

The sun isn't shining and the sky seems muted in varying shades of blue. I look up at the clouds and remember a game I used to play with my mother when I was very young. We would sit on the grass in our front yard , look up at the clouds and search for different images and characters we saw in the shape of the clouds and point them out to each other. That's what I do now. At first I see two cub bears , then a girl doing a swan dive from her diving board in the sky.

The scent of red fir coming from the chimney in our wood burning stove drifts down to where I'm sitting and reminds me it's time to head back to the house, that there's chores to get done and dinner to fix. I slowly stand up, stretch out my arms and take a deep breath reveling in the delight of this perfect Fall day. I think of the morrow, when I'll sit on the old log swing, and once again look across Rockford Bay .

Morning Light

Earth awaits morning light,
woodland creatures anticipate
the start of day
Clouds of grey part and
open wide
like a curtain on a stage
There the sun appears in all
its glory , lifting
shadows of the night
Shining brightly
it warms the path and
shows the way
to plump wild turkey
and white tail deer
Birds rested , now on the rise
gawk and sqawk and flap
their wings, ready for
flight across an
expanding blue sky
Flower petals drooping,
stooping in the dark , are lifted
upward, towards Heaven's gate

In Good Company

The double glass doors leading
to my place of solace
are open wide, allowing me to see the flame of the fire
in the wood burning stove, and feel its warmth
Comfortable, content
I sit cocoon like in this room of music
and books reading poetry
Quietly, silently at first,
then aloud, that I might
give voice to the phrase, the force
of Francois Villon - the edgy French poet
writing his The Great Testament in the long ago
year of 1461 with levity, and not a little pathos
and John Keats, the beloved Romantic , a favorite of
Fanny and future pursuers of poem
and Emily Dickinson, the famed Belle of Amherst
and Marge Piercy, cool and contemporary;
All good company on this golden hued
October day where
muted fall colors filter through
slat covered windows
casting dancing shadows
from ceiling to floor .
I pause to contemplate
the poet's written words
woven together
to make the perfect poem
and know I, and the world are in a
better place
for their gift to create

Writing a Picture

Each morning upon waking I look out the window to see a favorite view; One that lifts my spirit
the lake,
tall pines,
the birds
and sky

Most days I trek down to our well worn log swing so I can have a closer look at the bay. I sit , gently swaying back and forth and study the landscape. Today, I contemplate how one might describe this vision to someone without sight.

Unlike the artist who paints the scene for others to enjoy, or photographer who sets the shutter speed to capture the perfect picture, the writer must rely on words alone to show
the lake,
the pines,
the birds
and sky

The wind is blowing hard now , whipping the lake into row after row of cupped white capped water. From a distance it looks like it might have the texture of freshly made merangue . Across the bay , a crooked shoreline outlines the boundary between earth and water. Mountains ,blanketed with thousands of Evergreens, frame the background. Closer to where I'm sitting I notice hundreds of new growth pinecones - reddish brown, still miniature in size hanging from tall pines like ornaments on a Christmas tree. Another gust of wind causes clumps of old dry needles and broken twigs to fall from the trees. They crunch underfoot when walking across the wooded trail - sounding like Rice Krispies: Snap, Crackle, Pop.

Two black billed magpies catch my attention. Their white belly and long black tails give them a glamourous, dressed up appearance , as if wearing little bird tuxedo's, ready to attend a fancy black and white Ball. They are gregarious and playful; Fluttering their wings, they quickly move from one place to another other making me think of kids chasing after each other in the school yard at recess.

The sky is a softer, lighter shade of blue, giving contrast to the darker, deeper blue of the lake. The colors are calming, like eating comfort food. I look up and watch as clouds drift by and am reminded of cotton . That's how the clouds seem to me now, like big balls of cotton I could reach up and gather in my hand.

Time passes. I remain sitting on the swing and stare, as though lost in a trance, and continue to behold the beauty of nature's bounty
the lake,
tall pines,
the birds
and sky.