Monday, July 29, 2013

mysterious ways...


life is wonder and mystery...


 but i don't always like


the mystery part.




Wednesday, July 24, 2013

on the wing





a butterfly's wings
what remains is still beauty
my spirit takes flight



Friday, July 19, 2013

we shall by morning inherit the earth.


Mushrooms
by Sylvia Plath

Overnight, very 
Whitely, discreetly, 
Very quietly 

Our toes, our noses 
Take hold on the loam, 
Acquire the air. 

Nobody sees us, 
Stops us, betrays us; 
The small grains make room. 

Soft fists insist on 
Heaving the needles, 
The leafy bedding, 

Even the paving. 
Our hammers, our rams, 
Earless and eyeless, 

Perfectly voiceless, 
Widen the crannies, 
Shoulder through holes. We 

Diet on water, 
On crumbs of shadow, 
Bland-mannered, asking 

Little or nothing. 
So many of us! 
So many of us! 

We are shelves, we are 
Tables, we are meek, 
We are edible, 

Nudgers and shovers 
In spite of ourselves. 
Our kind multiplies: 

We shall by morning 
Inherit the earth. 
Our foot's in the door.




Thursday, July 11, 2013





“We have art in order not to die of the truth.” 
― Friedrich Nietzsche


(watercolor by Sue Rovelstad Lawless)

Tuesday, July 9, 2013

how he brings life with so few words...


i said to my soul
be still
and
wait
so the darkness
shall be the 
light
and the stillness
the
 dancing.

— t.s. eliot


Monday, July 8, 2013

Saturday, July 6, 2013

mary oliver, on life and loss and letting go


In Blackwater Woods
by Mary Oliver


Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars

of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,

the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders

of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is

nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned

in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side

is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.




Wednesday, July 3, 2013

brushstrokes


 



brushstrokes on canvas
i touch what your hands have touched
you are here with me.